THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


t-f 


THE    FLOWER   OF 

ENGLAND'S    FACE" 


ms- 


.m>^ 


^'THE  FLOWER  OF 

ENGLAND'S  FACE" 

Sketches  of  English  Travel 


BY 


JULIA  C  R.  DORR 

Author  of  "  Friar  Anselmo,"  "  Afternoon 
Songs,"  etc.,  etc. 


m^  '^t^\  ;'^  ;.'  ^:' 
MACMILLAN   AND   COMPANY 

AND    LONDON 
1895 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


Norbjooti  ^rcss 

J.  S.  Cushinp;  &  Co.  -  Berwick  &  Smitlx 
Norwood  Muss.  U.S.A. 


TO 


*'  Fortasse  haec  oUm  tibi  juvabit  meminisse 


y> 


>- 

OS 


CONTENTS. 


g^         CHAP.  PAGE 

^                I,  A  WEEK  IN  WALES             ...  1 

II.  BAXBURY     CAKES    AND    THE    ISLE 

«M                               OF  WIGHT 46 

?*• 

If>         in.  A  DAY   OF   CONTRASTS      ...  70 
CVJ 

O          IV.  IN   THE   FOREST   OF  ARDEN      .           .  89 

V.  AT  THE   PEACOCK  INN     .          .          .  126 

.            VI.      AT  HAWORTH 143 


VII.      FROM     THE     BORDER     TO      INVER- 
NESS      180 


7> 

cy 

Li        Vin.      TO     CAWDOR     CASTLE     AND     CUL- 

[^  LODEN   MOOR         ....      209 

n  IX.      AN  ENCHANTED  DAY        .  .  .     236 

-4 
< 


452647' 


^^THE  FLOWEK  OF  ENGLAND'S 
FACE.'' 


A  WEEK  IN   WALES. 

OHOULD  it  be  the  English  Lakes,  or 
North  Wales  ?  We  were  in  Chester, 
and  it  was  the  week  of  the  Queen's 
Jubilee.  London  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  To-morrow  would  be  the  great  day 
itself,  and  even  this  staid  old  town,  witli 
its  historic  walls  and  towers,  its  queer 
"  Rows,"  of  whicli  no  description  can  con- 
vey an  adequate  idea,  its  picturesque  streets 
and  ancient  iiouses,  was  alive  with  pleasant 
turmoil  and  excitement. 

That  night,  at  twenty  minutes  to  ten,  I 
stood  at  my  window  in  the  Grosvenor, 
looking  up  at  the  dark  spires  of  the 
cathedral.     There   was   no   moon  and  the 

B  I 


2  A    WEEK    IN    WALES, 

street  lamps  were  not  yet  lighted,  nor  were 
my  candles.  Yet  I  found  by  actual  experi- 
ment that  I  could  read  common  newspaper 
print  with  perfect  ease.  Such  is  the  length 
of  the  English  twilight. 

There  was  little  sleep  for  Chester  that 
night.  Eastgate  Street,  and  doubtless  all 
the  other  streets,  were  alive  with  surging 
crowds,  shouting  and  cheering,  and  sing- 
ing Jubilee  songs.  "  God  save  the  Queen  ! 
God  save  the  Queen!  "  was  the  burden  of 
them  all.  Jubilee  cakes  and  Jubilee  can- 
dies filled  the  shop-windows,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  flags,  medals,  and  souvenirs  of  all 
sorts,  from  a  pin-cushion  to  a  diadem.  The 
Queen's  plain,  matronly  face  greeted  one  at 
every  turn,  generally  rising  above  the  black 
robes  she  most  affects,  lightened  only  by  the 
blue  ribbon  of  the  Garter.  But  occasionally 
might  be  seen  a  more  ambitious  attempt  at 
portraying  the  splendours  of  royalty.  Im- 
agine her  Majesty  in  a  bright  red  gown, 
crowned  and  bejewelled  to  the  last  degree  ! 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  3 

Towards  morning  Chester  went  to  bed, 
and  we  fell  asleep,  only  to  be  awakened  at 
dawn  by  the  chiming  of  the  cathedral  bells, 
almost  in  front  of  our  windows.  It  was 
worth  waking  for,  —  to  lie  there  in  a  half- 
dream,  and  hear  the  liquid  music  soar,  and 
swell,  and  die  away,  at  last,  in  strains  too 
sweet  for  earth.  In  the  afternoon  there  was 
a  Jubilee  service  for  the  children,  for  which 
tickets  were  kindly  sent  us.  Chester  is  one 
of  the  smaller  cathedrals  ;  yet  on  that  occa- 
sion, though  only  the  south  transejDt  was 
used,  it  was  said  that  seven  thousand  chil- 
dren and  many  grown  people  were  seated 
in  its  wide  spaces.  Perhaps  it  should  be 
stated  that  this  transept  is  exceptionally 
large  —  nearly  as  large  as  the  nave  itself 
—  and  is  known  as  the  church  of  St. 
Oswald.  The  children  did  most  of  the 
singing,  led  by  the  trained  choir  and  the 
great  organ ;  and  when  the  full  chorus  of 
fresh  young  voices  rolled  out  grandly  in 
the  liymn,  — 


4  A    WKICK    IN    WALES. 

"  Like  a  miji^hty  army 

Moves  the  church  of  God ; 
Brothers,  we  are  treading 
Where  tlie  saints  have  trod," 

the  effect  was  overpowering.  It  would 
have  been  overwhelming  anywhere,  that 
mighty  river  of  song ;  but  there,  in  that 
hoary  cathedral,  whose  vaulted  aisles  had 
echoed  with  the  sound  of  prayer  and  psalm 
for  twelve  hundred  years,  it  was  as  resist- 
less as  the  waves  of  the  ocean.  "  Where 
the  saints  have  trod"  ?  Were  they  saints, 
those  old  monks  ?  Not  all  of  them.  They 
were  men  of  like  frailties  with  ourselves ; 
and  the  good  and  bad  mingled  in  monastery 
walls,  in  what  we  call  the  dark  ages,  as  in 
city  streets  to-day.  But  there  were  grand 
and  saintly  souls  among  them,  who  laboured 
zealously,  according  to  their  light,  for  God 
and  man.  We  had  paced  their  cloisters, 
treading  in  the  very  imprints  of  their  feet. 
We  had  loitered  in  their  green,  secluded 
closes.     We  had  listened  for  the  lingering 


A    WEEK    IN   WALES.  5 

cadence  of  their  laughter  in  the  vaulted 
Monk's  Parlour,  and  in  the  chapter-house 
we  had  touched  reverently  the  books  they 
read  and  the  missals  from  which  they 
prayed.  We  had  looked  down  the  long, 
narrow  vista  of  the  scriptorium.  Here, 
hour  after  hour,  had  the  cowled  heads 
bent  over  the  parchment  books  the  deft 
liands  were  illuminating  with  such  fine 
tracery  of  leaf  and  flower.  Perhaps  the 
very  ivies  that  were  casting  such  flickering 
shadows  on  its  gray  arches  were  the  direct 
descendants  of  those  that  dallied  with 
"  the  winds  that  blew  a  thousand  years 
ago."  Who  could  deny  it?  We  had 
wandered  through  the  murky  crypt  where 
their  ashes  lie ;  and  one  of  us  had  found, 
with  the  aid  of  the  verger,  the  initials  of  an 
old  fourteenth-century  abbot,  S.  R.,  en- 
twined in  the  foliage  of  one  of  the  carved 
capitals  in  the  nave,  —  said  abbot  being, 
according  to  tradition,  a  far-off  kinsman 
of  her  own.     Afterwards,  she  was  shown 


O  A    WEEK    rx   WALES. 

reverently,  in  one  of  the  cloisters,  a  black- 
ened, mutilated  slab  that  had  once  covered 
his  grave  or  coffin,  on  which  the  S.  R.  ap- 
peared again,  cleanly  cut,  as  if  fresh  from 
the  graver's  hand. 

Charles  Kingsley  was  for  some  years  a 
canon  of  Chester,  and  the  friendly  vergers 
had  many  stories  to  tell  of  him  and  his 
doings.  It  was  for  his  sake,  in  part,  that 
we  planned  to  go  in  a  row-boat  to  Eaton 
Hall,  thinking  that  perhaps  we,  as  well  as 
the  boatmen,  might  still  hear  his  Mary 

"  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sauds  o'  Dee." 

All  the  rest  of  the  folk  who  wished  to 
shun  London  till  the  hurly-burly  of  the 
Jubilee  was  over  seemed  to  be  going  to 
the  Lakes.  So  Saint  Katharine  and  I 
decided  on  Xorth  Wales,  thus  avoiding  the 
whole  crowd  of  tourists.  Conway  being 
our  first  objective  point,  we  took  the 
Chester  and  Holyhead  section  of  the  Lon- 


A    WEEK    IX    WALES.  ^ 

don  and  Northwestern  Railway,  wliich  runs 
along  the  shores  of  the  river  Dee  and  the 
Irish  Sea,  of  which,  in  fact,  the  river  is 
itself  an  arm.  The  glimpses  of  scenery  to  he 
caught  from  the  Hying  train  are  exquisitely 
picturesque ;  and  we  two  lone  women 
could  not  quite  control  our  expressions 
of  pleasure,  even  though  a  dignified  Welsh 
gentleman  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  com- 
partment, absorbed  in  a  newspaper.  Now 
occurred  one  of  the  small  delights  of  travel 
that  it  is  so  pleasant  to  recall  afterwards ; 
and  once  again  we  were  compelled  to  con- 
gratulate ourselves  on  having  chosen  the 
sociable  and  friendly  rep  of  the  second  class 
car,  rather  than  the  more  exclusive  plush  of 
the  first.  Our  fellow  passenger  laid  down 
The  Times. 

"  I  see  you  are  interested  in  our  \Yelsh 
scenery,  ladies,"  he  said.  "Pray  exchange 
seats  with  me.  The  views  from  this  side 
are  much  the  finer,  and  it  is  all  an  old 
story  to  me." 


8  A  wi:f,k  in  wales. 

An  intollij^ent  man  is  really  a  much  more 
interesting  travelling  companion  than  the 
very  best  guide-book ;  especially  when  he 
is  good  enough  to  show  you  a  thousand 
points  of  interest,  —  little  things  that  the 
guide-book  gi'andly  ignores,  or  that  you 
would  be  sure  not  to  recognize  in  the 
hurry  of  the  moment.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  our  new  friend,  we  should  hardly  have 
noticed  the  chimneys  of  Hawarden,  or 
strained  our  eyes  in  the  attempt  to  see  the 
house  itself,  hidden  in  its  nest  of  greenery. 
But  we  did  see  the  unpretentious  parish 
church  where  Mr.  Gladstone  often  reads  the 
service,  to  the  edification  of  himself  and 
others.  If  it  had  not  been  for  our  friend, 
too,  we  should  have  had  occasion  to  go 
lamenting  all  the  rest  of  our  days  that  we 
had  passed  without  knowing  it  the  ruins  of 
Flint  Castle,  where  Richard  held  the  mem- 
orable interview  with  Bolingbroke,  and 
sighed  to  be  "great  as  his  gi'ief,  or  lesser 
thau  his  name."     It  stands,  what  there  is 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  9 

left  of  it,  on  a  rugged  hill,  through  which 
we  swept  in  a  tunnel,  so  that  "the  rude 
ribs  of  that  ancient  castle  "  were  directly 
over  our  heads,  and  its  "tattered  battle- 
ments" loomed  above  us  as  we  emerged 
into  the  sunlight  again.  The  ruins  of 
feudal  castles  that  meet  one  at  every  turn 
in  Wales  are  patent  reminders  that  the 
whole  land  was  long  a  bone  of  contention 
between  two  rival  nations,  and  that  here, 
time  after  time  and  generation  after  gen- 
eration, the  English  kings  summoned  their 
men-at-arms  in  a  vain  attempt  to  subdue 
the  valorous  Welsh,  secure  in  their  moun- 
tain fastnesses.  But  the  stronger  won  at 
last.  Beautiful  indeed  was  Gwrrych  Castle 
that  afternoon,  in  its  setting  of  emerald 
woods,  —  a  stately  pile  of  cream-coloured 
stone,  with  many  towers  and  turrets,  and 
a  mountain  for  a  background.  It  is  a 
human  habitation,  not  a  ruin,  and  belongs 
to  the  Marquis  of  Mostyn.  Very  near  it  is 
Abergele,  once  the  home  of  Mrs.  Hemans. 


lO  A    WKKK    IN    WALES. 

Modern  "  culture"  docs  not  thorouglily  ap- 
prove her  of  whom  her  greater  sister  in 
song,  Mrs.  Browning,  said,  "  she  never 
wronged  that  mystic  breath,  which  breatlied 
in  all  her  being."  But  those  of  us  who 
arc  old  enough  to  remember  the  days  when 
it  was  allowable  to  read  and  admire  her, 
cannot  fail  to  have  noticed  the  strong  hold 
Welsh  history  and  Welsh  legends  had  upon 
her  imagination. 

At  Old  Colwyn,  "  our  Welsh  friend,"  as 
we  like  to  call  him,  having  no  other  name 
to  know  him  by,  pointed  out  to  us  his  own 
home  on  the  hillside,,  divided  with  us  a 
great  bunch  of  white  carnations  he  was 
carrying  to  his  wife,  shook  hands  with  us 
cordially,  and  departed,  smiling  and  lifting 
his  hat  as  he  vanished  round  the  corner. 
How  easy  it  is  to  do  kindly  things,  if  one 
only  wants  to  ! 

Soon  we  rolled  into  what  we  more  than 
once  heard  called  the  "stupid"  town  of 
Conway.     The    omnipresent    porter    took 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  II 

our  luggage,   and  we  walked  a  short  dis- 
tance to  the  Castle  Hotel. 

Conway  is  headquarters  for  the  Eoyal 
Cambrian  Society  of  Art.  "We  wondered 
if  that  fact,  or  its  having  a  landlady  of 
artistic  proclivities,  accounted  for  the  pict- 
ures, mostly  oil-paintings,  which  covered 
the  walls  of  our  inn.  The  coffee-room 
and  halls  were  lined  with  them,  and  the 
chambers  held  the  overflow.  In  our  host- 
ess's private  parlour,  Kensington  embroid- 
ery, old  china,  painted  door-panels,  painted 
milking-stools,  etc.,  had  a  strangely  familiar 
air,  showing  that  Wales,  like  America,  is  in 
the  march  of  progress.  |  If  we  could  only 
have  found  a  decorated  rolling-pin,|  we 
should  have  been  happy.  But  in  a  con- 
spicuous place  hung  two  or  three  sketches 
of  American  scenery  by  Thomas  Moran, 
sent  to  our  hostess,  as  she  was  proud  to 
say,  by  the  artist  himself,  who  had  been 
for  weeks  a  guest  of  the  house.  One 
morning,  when  we  went  down  to  break- 


/^ 


12  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

fast,  we  found  in  the  coffee-room  an  old 
gentleman  and  his  wife:  she,  a  tall,  angular 
person,  with  her  hair  combed  low  ou  her 
cheeks,  and  then  carried  up  over  her  ears, 
a  huge  cap  with  purple  ribbons,  and  a  gown 
that  looked  like  a  fifty-year-old  fashion- 
plate;  he,  a  curious  figure  that  might  have 
stepped  bodily  out  of  one  of  Dickens's 
illustrated  pages.  He  was  prowling  about 
the  room  with  an  eyeglass,  grumbling  be- 
cause his  breakfast  was  not  served,  and 
venting  his  spleen  upon  those  unfortunate 
pictures.  "Abominable!  Atrocious!"  he 
kept  exclaiming  with  a  snort.  "And  I 
suppose,  my  dear,  there  are  people  who 
call  this  art!''''  But  why  need  he  have 
given  the  things  so  much  attention?  It  is 
well  to  know  when  to  shut  one's  eyes. 
There  were  lovely  flowers  on  the  table, 
for  which  he  had  neither  glance  nor  word. 
The  thing  we  had  come  to  Conway  to 
see  was  the  castle.  But  on  the  principle 
of  leaving  the  best  till  the  last,  we  saw 


A    WEEK    IN   WALES.  1 3 

everything  else  first,  keeping  it  and  gloat- 
ing over  it  as  a  child  gloats  over  his 
sugar-plums,  though  it  was  always  in  our 
thoughts  as  in  our  sight,  —  the  one  domi- 
nant feature  in  the  landscape,  ruling  it 
as  a  mountain  rules  the  valley. 

"  Be  sure  to  go  up  the  river  to  Trefriw," 
our  friend  of  the  carnations  had  said,  as 
a  parting  injunction.  The  next  morning 
was  hot,  and  the  cool  breeze  from  the 
river  was  delicious.  "What  time  could  be 
better  than  the  present  ?  So  to  the  dock 
we  went,  and  for  an  hour  awaited  the 
arrival  of  the  small  steamer ;  the  Conway 
being  a  tidal  river,  and  completely  ruled 
by  the  caprices  of  the  lady  moon. 

But  we  were  off  at  last,  like  a  parcel 
of  children  playing  at  sea-going,  in  a  toy 
boat  on  a  toy  river.  Nothing  more  en- 
joyable can  well  be  conceived.  All  was 
so  sweet,  so  still,  so  serene,  that  it  was 
like  moving  in  a  happy  dream.  The  softly 
rounded  hills,  cultivated,    and  clothed  to 


14  A    WKKK    IN    WALKS. 

their  suiniiiits  with  all  iina,u;iiial)lc  shades 
of  green  and  olive;  the  lovely  stone  cot- 
tages, picturesque  on  the  outside  at  least, 
springing  up  in  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way- 
places, —  now  clinging  to  some  sharply  de- 
lined  point  far  up  the  hillsides,  now  nes- 
tling deep  in  sheltered  valleys,  but  all  alike 
mantled  with  ivy  and  bright  with  roses; 
the  fern-clad  banks  of  the  stream ;  the 
arched  bridges;  the  ancestral  farmhouses, 
gray  with  age;  and  here  and  there  the 
stately  splendour  of  hall  or  castle,  made 
a  series  of  pictures  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Our  captain  was  very  accommodating,  and 
helped  to  carry  out  the  illusion  that  it 
was  all  play.  If  he  saw  a  would-be  pas- 
senger strolling  leisurely  over  the  fields 
towards  the  river,  he  (juietly  turned  his 
prow  to  the  shore,  and  waited  till  the 
new-comer  leaped  on  board.  If  a  woman 
wanted  to  land  where  there  was  no  dock, 
that  she  might  shorten  the  distance  home- 
wards by  going  "  'cross  lots,"  she  had  only 


A    WEEK    IX    WALES.  1 5 

to  suggest  it,  and  she  was  put  ashore  forth- 
with, —  sometimes,  as  it  seemed,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  an  overturn.  At  Tre- 
friw,  which  certainly  liad  very  little  to 
show  for  itself  except  its  ferns  and  its 
long  ranks  of  pink  and  purple  foxgloves, 
there  was  time  for  luncheon,  if  anybody 
wanted  it.  Beyond  this  point  the  river 
is  not  navigable,  and  we  were  soon  on 
our  return  voyage,  "going  out  with  the 
tide."  The  little  Conway  was  famous  for 
its  pearl  fisheries  even  before  the  Roman 
Conquest,  and  Wales  boasts  that  a  Conway 
pearl  is  one  of  the  ornaments  of  the  English 
crown  to-day. 

Near  the  head  of  High  Street  stands  the 
Plas  Mawr,  or  Great  Mansion,  built  more 
than  three  centuries  ago  by  one  llobert 
Wynne.  Its  chief  claim  to  distinction  lies 
in  the  fact  that  its  owner  had  the  honour 
of  entertaining  Queen  Elizabeth  for  some 
days.  The  old  house  is  just  as  it  was  then, 
save   for  the   ravages   of   tunc,  which   are 


l6  A   WEKK    IN    WALES. 

many.  But  the  great  courts,  the  floors, 
the  wood-work  of  panelled  oak  now  black 
as  ebony,  the  window-sashes,  the  small 
diamond-shaped  panes  of  greenish  glass, 
the  fireplaces,  aixl  the  stairways,  remain 
unaltered,  for  the  most  part.  The  Plas 
Mawr  was  freshly  decorated  and  adorned 
for  the  reception  of  the  queen,  and  the 
letters  E.  R.,  Elizabeth  Regina,  appear  over 
and  over  again,  both  in  wood-carvings  and 
on  the  ceilings,  in  connection  with  the 
royal  crest.  The  ceilings  have  been  bar- 
barously whitewashed,  but  they  must  have 
been  very  beautiful  when  they  shone  in 
green  and  gold,  with  rich  emblazonry  of 
heraldic  colours.  In  the  great  banqueting- 
hall  —  people  seem  never  to  have  eaten,  but 
always  to  have  banqueted,  in  those  days  — 
are  the  identical  tables  and  chairs  of  mas- 
sive oak  used  by  the  royal  party.  We 
entered  the  private  drawing-room  of  the 
queen,  and  her  bed-chamber;  and  tried  to 
imagine  her,  in  the  prime  of  her  haughty 


A   WEEK    IX   WALES.  1 7 

womanhood,  sitting  in  a  low  cliair  before 
the  broad  fireplace,  dreaming,  perhaps,  of 
the  very  lovers  whom  she  spnrned.  But 
nothing  brought  back  the  romance  of  the 
past  so  vividly  as  when  our  escort,  the 
secretary  of  the  above-named  art  society, 
said,  throwing  open  another  door,  "  The 
Earl  of  Leicester  was  in  attendance  upon 
her  majesty.  This  was  his  chamber."  If  so, 
at  this  small,  deep,  diamond-paned  lattice 
he  must  often  have  stood,  as  he  buckled 
on  his  sword  or  arranged  his  slashed  doub- 
let. Were  his  thoughts  of  fair  Amy  Rob- 
sart,  pining  at  Cumnor  Place,  or  of  the 
proud  woman  next  door? 

That  evening,  as  it  was  growing  dark, 
we  heard  the  sound  of  strange,  unearthly 
music,  and  forthwith  rushed  to  the  window. 
A  woman  of  middle  age,  swathed  in  wid- 
ow's weeds  from  top  to  toe,  and  leading 
a  little  child  dressed  also  in  black,  was 
moving  slowly  along  the  middle  of  the 
street,  singing  a  wild,  weird  air,  set  to 
c 


1 8  A    WKEK    IN    WALES. 

Welsh  words.  Her  voice  was  almost  pain- 
fully pathetic,  but  her  walk  was  quite  be- 
yond description.  She  would  take  three 
or  four  slow  steps  with  a  sort  of  rhythmic 
swing,  and  then  stand  stock  still,  rolling 
her  eyes  as  in  a  fine  frenzy,  while  she 
ix)ured  forth  those  uncanny  strains  with 
a  power  and  pathos  that  made  one's  heart 
beat.  Then  came  the  swing  again.  The 
little  child  faithfully  copied  her  every 
movement.  ' '  Is  she  crazy,  Saint  Katha- 
rine?" I  asked.  "Or  is  she  a  broken- 
down  singer,  on  a  hunt  for  pennies?" 
For  her  voice,  cracked  now  and  harsh  in 
some  of  its  tones,  had  been  fine  once. 
But  no  one  paid  the  slightest  attention 
to  her;  none  of  the  passers-by  recognized 
her  presence  even  by  a  turn  of  the  head. 
At  length,  slowly,  still  singing,  she  and 
the  child  passed  out  of  sight,  fading  away 
in  the  gloaming. 

The   parish   church    at    Conway,  wlilch 
is  built  on  the  site   of  the    monastery   of 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  I9 

Aberconway,  has  a  fine  old  font  and  a 
beautiful  rood-screen.  The  latter  is  said 
to  have  belonged  to  the  abbey,  but  tradi- 
tions differ.  In  the  chancel  are  monu- 
ments to  the  Wynne  family  ;  and  in  the 
floor,  which  is  lower  than  that  of  the  nave, 
is  a  rude  stone,  with  the  inscription  "  Y. 
Z.  1066,"— the  very  date  of  the  Norman 
Conquest.  Another  bears  this  curious 
record :  — 

"Here  lyeth  ye  body  of  Mch's  Hookes 
of  Conway  Gent,  who  was  ye  4Jst  child 
of  his  father  Wm.  Hookes,  Esq,  by 
Alice  his  wife,  and  ye  father  of  27  chil- 
dren who  dyed  ye  20th  day  of  March 
1637." 

Query :  Did  the  twenty-seven  children 
all  come  to  an  untimely  end  on  "ye  20th 
day  of  March"? 

At  length,  one  perfect  day,  we  went  to 
the  castle.  The  old  man  who  has  the  place 
in  charge  took  the  small  fee,  unlocked  a 
door,  and  left  us  to  our  own  devices.     The 


20  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

whole  glorious  ruin  was  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  our  own.  During  that  long 
golden  afternoon  not  a  soul  came  near  us, 
not  a  voice  disturbed  us.  Could  one  de- 
scribe a  cloud,  or  a  wave,  or  a  sunset,  so 
that  a  blind  man  could  see  it  with  his 
mind's  eye  ?  Could  one  give  a  deaf  man 
an  idea  of  a  bird  song,  or  the  peal  of  an 
organ  ?  As  well  try  to  do  this  as  to  de- 
scribe the  solemn  grandeur  of  those  time- 
worn,  ivy-grown,  moss-covered  battlements, 
left  now  to  the  sweet  winds  of  heaven,  the 
flocks  of  rooks  that  fly  in  and  out  of  turret 
and  tower,  and  the  climbing  roses  that 
brighten  it  with  their  beauty.  From  court 
to  court  we  wandered,  from  tower  to  tower, 
from  battlement  to  battlement.  Here,  all 
unroofed  and  open  to  the  stars,  lies  the 
great  banqueting-hall,  more  beautiful,  more 
imposing,  now,  it  may  be,  in  its  ivy- 
wreathed  desolation,  than  when  the  gay 
revellers  of  Edward's  court  made  its  vast 
arches  ring  with  song  and  laughter.     Here 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  21 

Still  are  the  wide  lireplaces,  rich  with 
carvings,  the  very  ghosts  of  past  comfort 
and  delight.  Here  is  the  oratory,  with  its 
traceried  windows  and  lofty,  groined  arches, 
where  Eleanor  the  Faithful  prayed.  Here 
is  her  bed-chamber,  communicating  with 
that  of  the  king,  and  still  retaining  traces 
of  its  rich  ornamentation.  Leading  from 
it  is  an  arched  recess  still  called  Queen 
Eleanor's  Oriel,  the  windows  of  which, 
according  to  a  contemporary  poet,  must 
have  been  finely  stained;  — 

' '  In  her  oriel  there  she  was, 
Closed  well  with  royal  glass ; 
Filled  it  was  with  imagery, 
Every  window  by  and  by." 

Here  are  stairways  worn  by  feet  that  were 
stilled  long  centuries  ago  ;  and,  in  the  deep 
thickness  of  the  walls,  the  passages,  dark 
and  tortuous,  through  which  those  feet 
strode  on  errands  of  business,  or  pleasure, 
or  intrigue.  Here  are  stone  benches  that 
seem  still  to  keep  the  impress  of  the  forms 


22  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

that  througli  tlie  slow  generations  shaped 
and  hollowed  them.  We  looked  through 
openings  in  the  "crannied  walls,"  from 
which  death  and  destruction  had  rained  on 
many  a  besieging  party. 

Far  below  us,  as  we  stood  on  the  lofty 
battlements,  lay  the  walled  town,  with  its 
massive  semicircular  towers,  so  powerful 
once  for  defence  or  attack,  so  useless  now 
as  they  slept  in  that  serenest  air.  Close 
about  the  castle  clustered  the  cottages 
and  gardens  of  the  people,  but  they  only 
added  to  the  impressiveness  of  the  pict- 
ure. Just  at  our  feet  was  a  pretty  stone 
house,  its  courtyard  gay  with  flowers,  the 
castle  wall  forming  one  of  its  boundaries. 

It  is  with  the  beauty  and  grandeur  of  the 
hoary  pile  that  we  have  to  do  ;  not  with  its 
history.  Yet  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  say 
that  it  was  built  by  Hugh  Lupus,  first  Earl 
of  Chester,  and  a  nephew  of  William  the 
Conqueror  ;  and  was  rebuilt  and  enlarged 
by  Edward  I.,  in  1284. 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  23 

Descending  from  the  heights  at  last,  after 
many  a  lingering  look  at  the  winding  river, 
the  quiet  valley,  green  and  golden  in  the 
sun,  the  distant  hills,  and  the  bold  head- 
lands jutting  seaward,  we  went  down  into 
the  inner  court  and  out  on  the  terrace, 
under  the  windows  of  Queen  Eleanor's 
Tower.  Surely  she  must  often  have  sat 
there  with  her  knights  and  ladies,  the  fair, 
sweet  woman  whose  memory  is  fragrant 
even  yet,  rejoicing  as  we  did  in  the  soft 
sunlight  and  the  beauty  of  earth  and  sea. 

In  a  sheltered  nook  of  the  inner  court, 
an  iron  settee  appeared  a  tempting  resting 
place.  Taking  off  our  bonnets  we  sat  there 
in  silent  thought  till  the  long  shadows  fell, 
and  the  rooks  came  flying  homeward.  Then 
I  rose  and  turned  towards  the  battlements 
again. 

Saint  Katharine  slowly  followed. 
"Haven't  you  done  climbing  enough  for 
one  day  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Where  are  you 
going  now  ?  " 


24  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

"  To  pluck  a  rose  for  E.  C.  S.  on  that 
higliest  battlement,"  I  answered.  "  We 
owe  the  delight  of  this  day  to  him,  and  I 
must  send  him  a  rose  by  way  of  thanks." 

"But  here  is  one  right  at  your  hand," 
and  my  saint  drew  a  pink  spray  from  the 
nearest  wall.     "Why  go  any  higher?" 

"  Because  I  want  the  very  pinkest  one  of 
all,  swaying  against  the  blue  sky  up  yonder. 
I'll  tell  you  a  secret  too.  There's  been  a 
sonnet  buzzing  in  my  brain  all  this  blessed 
afternoon ;  and  if  I  am  ever  safely  delivered 
of  it,  it  shall  go  with  the  rose.  But  —  son- 
nets are  uncertain, things.  —  Kate!  What's 
the  matter  now  ?  " 

"My  purse,"  she  said  faintly,  feeling  in 
both  pockets.  "It's  certainly  gone.  I've 
lost  it.  No,  it  isn't  under  the  bench  where 
we  were  sitting.  I  must  have  dropped  it 
up  here  somewhere." — And  up  she  flew 
in  a  successful  search  for  filthy  lucre, 
while  I,  more  blessed,  found  the  sweet  wild 
rose  that,  all  unknowing  of  its  high  des- 


A    WEEK    IN    WALES.  25 

tiny,  had  blossomed  for  my  poet  beyond 
the  seas. 

TO  E.  C.   S. 

WITH  A   ROSE   FROM   CONWAY   CASTLE. 

Ou  hoary  Conway's  battlemented  height, 
O  poet-heart,  I  phick  for  thee  a  rose! 
Through  arch  and  court  the   sweet   wind 
wandering  goes ; 
Round  each  high  tower  the  rooks,  in  airy  flight, 
Circle  and  wheel,  all  bathed  in  amber  light; 
Low  at  my  feet  the  winding  river  flows ; 
Valley  and  town,  entranced  in  deep  repose. 
War  doth  no  more  appall,  nor  foes  affright! 
Thou  knowest  how  softly  on  the  castle  walls, 
Wliere  mosses  creep,  and  ivies  far  and  free 
Fling  forth  their  pennants  to  the  freshening 
breeze, 
Like  God's  own  benison  this  sunshine  falls. 
Therefore,  O  friend,  across  the  sundering 

seas 
Fair  Conway  sends  this  sweet  wild  rose  to 
thee! 

At  last  we  tore  ourselves  away,  and  the 
next  morning  took  the  earliest  train  for 
Caernarvon,  pausing  at  Bangor  for  a  view 


26  A    WKEK    IN    WALES. 

of  the  Mcnai  Straits  and  of  the  two  famous 
tubular  and  suspension  bridges.  Both  are 
beautiful  in  their  strength  and  symmetry, 
but  the  woman  must  know  more  than  I  of 
scientific  engineering  who  undertakes  to 
give-  any  idea  of  them.  Let  us  hasten  on 
to  Caernarvon. 

The  town  itself  was  not  attractive  to  us  : 
solely,  it  may  be,  because  it  happened  to  be 
hot  and  dusty.  It  was  founded  by  the 
Eomans,  who  gave  it  the  name  of  Segon- 
tium.  The  river  that  flows  near  the  town 
is  called  the  Seiont,  but  whether  the  river 
named  the  town,. or  the  town  the  river,  is 
an  open  question.  Coed-helen,  a  wooded 
height  opposite,  tradition  says  was  so 
called  in  honour  of  the  Empress  Helen, 
the  mother  of  Constantino.  In  addition 
to  its  Roman  history,  Caernarvon  was  the 
headquarters  of  the  English  government  in 
Wales  after  the  conquest  by  Edward,  —  all 
which  goes  to  prove  that  it  ought  to  be  of 
great  interest  to  the  antiquarian. 


A    WEEK    IX    WALES.  27 

Leaving  our  luggage  at  the  station,  we 
sallied  forth  to  find  the  castle.  Travelling, 
like  life,  is  a  succession  of  choices.  One 
cannot  see,  or  do,  or  have,  or  be,  every- 
thing. How  to  chose  the  best  is  the  great 
problem.  We  chose  the  castle  here.  Shall 
I  confess  it  was  a  disappointment,  as  often- 
times more  important  choices  are  ?  "  More 
picturesque  than  Conway,"  says  the  guide- 
books, and  "much  finer."  Externally  it 
is  in  a  state  of  almost  complete  preserva- 
tion, and  it  is  undeniably  a  grand  and 
beautiful  structure,  with  its  well-kept 
walls  and  imposing  towers.  But  its  com- 
mon-place adaptation  to  the  uses  and 
needs  of  to-day,  the  ground  floor  of  the 
Queen's  Tower  being  a  Freemason's  hall 
and  an  armoury,  and  the  second  a  museum, 
while  the  lower  basement  of  the  far-famed 
Eagle  Tower  is  a  magazine  and  a  drill- 
room,  made  it  to  our  minds  far  less  im- 
pressive than  Conway,  sitting  silent  in  its 
proud  desolation. 


28  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

Yet  Caernarvon,  too,  has  its  keen  human 
interests,  the  associations  that  give  it  the 
glamour  of  mystery  and  romance.  To  its 
mighty  walls,  as  to  a  fortress,  Edward 
brought  Eleanor  in  the  spring  of  1284, 
—  before  Conway  had  been  made  ready 
for  her  reception.  The  stronghold  was 
but  just  finished,  and  it  is  said  to  pre- 
sent to-day,  externally,  the  same  appear- 
ance it  presented  when  the  beautiful  and 
stately  queen  first  entered  the  stupendous 
gateway  which  is  still  known  as  Queen 
Eleanor's  Gate.  Miss  Strickland  places 
this  gate  in  the  Eagle  Tower,  which  is 
on  the  southwest  corner,  commanding  the 
Menai  Straits,  But  this  must  be  a  mis- 
take, unless  the  local  traditions  and  the 
very  ground  plans  of  the  ancient  castle 
are  greatly  at  fault.  The  Queen's  Gate, 
composed  of  two  great  towers  and  of 
Gothic  arches,  is  at  the  extreme  east.  It 
is  at  a  great  elevation  from  the  ground 
outside,  and  was  approached  by  a  draw- 
bridge only. 


A    WEEK    IN   WALES.  29 

At  the  foot  of  Eagle  Tower  we  stood 
looking  up  at  a  small  window,  a  mere  slit 
in  the  heavy  masonry.  Should  we  venture 
the  climb  ?  For  in  a  chamber  lighted  only 
by  that  window  Eleanor  gave  birth  to  the 
unfortunate  Edward  II.,  the  first  Prince 
of  Wales.  There  was  but  one  answer  to 
the  question.  Up,  up,  up,  a  flight  of  wind- 
ing stone  stairs,  dark  and  narrow,  and 
worn  into  great,  uneven  hollows  that  made 
the  footing  most  insecure,  we  ascended, 
till  we  reached  a  little  room,  a  veritable 
eyrie,  far  up  in  the  tower.  Dreary  and 
gloomy  enough  it  is  now.  It  was  dark, 
cold,  and  forbidding,  even  in  the  bright- 
ness of  that  summer  day.  But  Eleanor 
was  the  first  woman  in  England  who  used 
tapestry  as  garniture  for  walls,  and  the 
marks  of  the  tenter-hooks  are  still  visible 
in  the  small  den.  Eor  it  is  only  that,  — 
more  unliomelike  than  a  prison  cell.  Let 
us  hope  that  when  its  rough  stones  were 


30  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

perhaps  warm  furs  and  soft  cushions 
covered  the  floor,  it  was  a  warm  and  cosey 
nest  for  the  wife  whom  Edward  was  proud  to 
say  he  loved  "above  all  earthly  creatures," 
la  ('here  reine  to  whose  memory  he  erected 
the  thirteen  crosses.  The  view  from  the  top 
of  Eagle  Tower  may  well  be  as  magnificent 
as  the  ancient  chroniclers  declare,  but  we 
were  content  with  our  present  altitude  and 
went  no  higher.  "Facilis  est  descensus 
Averni"  ?  Perhaps  so.  But  the  descent  of 
the  stairs  in  Eagle  Tower  is  a  thousand  times 
worse  than  the  going  up.  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  when  Queen  Eleanor  had  occasion  to 
come  down,  there  was  some  more  royal 
road  to  terra  firma. 

Three  days  after  his  birth,  —  from  the 
Queen's  Gate,  it  is  said,  —  Edward  pre- 
sented his  son  to  the  haughty  Welsh  barons 
as  their  future  ruler,  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
"Give  us,"  they  had  cried,  "a  native 
prince,  whose  tongue  is  neither  French 
nor   Saxon  ;   and   if   his   character   is  void 


A    WEEK    IX    WALES.  3! 

of  reproach,  we  swear  that  we  will  accept 
him,"  They  were  caught  in  a  trap,  yet 
what  could  they  do  but  submit?  Surely 
the  child  was  a  native  prince,  he  spoke 
neither  French  nor  English,  and  his  charac- 
ter was  unimpeacha,ble  ! 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  left 
the  castle,  and  strolled  slowly  back  towards 
the  station.  "Saint  Katharine,"  I  said, 
"I'm  hungry.  Can't  we  manage  to  get 
our  luncheon  in  some  place  that  shall  have 
a  Caernarvonish  flavour  ?  The  Hotel  Royal 
will  be  just  like  every  other  royal  hotel. 
Let  us  do  something  new  ! ' ' 

Eor  answer  she  darted  into  a  book-store 
we  were  just  passing.  I  followed,  to  find 
her  making  suit,  after  her  own  gentle  fash- 
ion, to  a  calm-faced,  gray-haired  man,  who 
was  smiling  benignly  at  her  from  behind 
the  counter.  "Certainly,"  he  was  saying. 
"Go  to  Mrs.  Pownal's.  That  is  the  place 
you  want ' '  ;  and  he  pointed  out  the  way. 

Mrs.  Pownal's  proved  to  be,  on  the  first 


32  A   WEEK   IN   WALES. 

floor  at  least,  a  little  shop,  a  sort  of  bakery, 
whose  small  counters  were  laden  with  buns, 
seed-cakes,  tarts,  and  muffins  ready  to  toast, 
all  giving  out  so  sweet  and  spicy  an  odour 
that  they  would  have  met  the  warm  appro- 
val of  Tom  Brown  and  his  Rugby  friends. 
There  should  have  been  a  school  close  by. 
"There  must  be,"  said  Saint  Katharine. 
"Think  of  so  many  tarts,  and  never  a 
schoolboy  to  eat  them ! "  For  in  all  our 
wanderings  in  England  we  found  the  dame's 
shop-window,  full  of  goodies,  was  sure  to  be 
very  near  the  gate  of  the  school  close.  This 
time,  however,  they  did  not  seem  to  be  in 
conjunction. 

"Luncheon?  Up-stairs,  if  you  please," 
said  a  little  white-capped  maid  ;  and  up  we 
went,  through  a  narrow,  winding  way,  into 
a  cool,  shaded  room,  with  green  hangings, 
a  long,  empty  table,  plenty  of  chairs,  and  a 
sofa.  Its  sole  occupant  was  a  gentleman, 
who  sat  before  a  grate  in  which  a  small 


A   WEEK    IX   WALES.  33 

warmth  outside.  It  was  purely  for  orna- 
ment. He  saluted  gi-avely,  and  went  on 
reading  his  newspaper. 

"  If  you  want  anything  foreign,  you  must 
go  to  the  Continent,"  said  our  friends,  be- 
fore we  started.  But  the  whole  atmosphere 
of  that  little  place  was  foreign,  even  to  the 
flavour  of  the  gooseberry  tarts.  You  could 
find  nothing  like  it  in  America  if  you 
hunted  from  Maine  to  California.  Why 
can't  one  put  the  soul  of  a  place  into 
words?  Mrs.  Pownal's  was  as  unique,  in 
its  way,  as  Blossom's,  in  Chester,  The 
gentleman  finished  his  newspaper,  and  de- 
parted. A  spotless  cloth  was  spread  for  us 
on  one  end  of  the  long  oaken  table,  and  a 
plentiful  luncheon  of  cold  meats,  thin  bread 
and  butter,  some  of  those  fragrant  tarts, 
and  ginger  ale,  was  served  for  the  enor- 
mous sum  of  ninepence  each.  That,  surely, 
was  "foreign"  enough  for  anybody.  The 
price,  I  mean. 

Rested  and  refreshed,  we  took  the  five 


34  A    WEEK   IN    WALES. 

o'clock  train  for  LlanlDcris,  where  vvc  were 
to  pass  the  night.  Thus  far  we  had  seen 
only  the  fair,  fertile,  park-like  valley  of  the 
Conway,  the  green  heights  about  Bangor, 
and  the  straits  of  the  Menai.  Hardly  had 
we  left  the  station  at  Caei:narvon  when  the 
whole  landscape  changed  as  by  magic. 
Towering  ranges  of  hills  arose  on  either 
side,  rough,  weather-beaten,  and  frowning. 
Hedges  gave  place  to  stone  walls.  Over 
the  wild  and  rocky  pastures  sheep  and  cat- 
tle were  roving.  Several  times  we  crossed 
the  Seiont,  famous  for  its  fishing.  Near 
Bont  Rythallt  station  we  caught  a  fine  view 
of  the  Eryri  Mountains,  with  the  Llanberis 
lakes  stretching  to  their  feet.  Passing  on, 
to  the  left  lay  the  great  slate  quarries ;  to 
the  right,  the  rugged  hills ;  while  directly 
in  front  of  us  Snowdon  pierced  the  clouds 
with  its  mighty  shaft,  and  the  venerable 
ruins  of  Dolbadarn  Castle  overlooked  the 
blue  expanse  of  the  lake.  This  was  more 
like  the  Wales  of  our  dreams ;  but  before 


A   WEEK   IX   WALES.  35 

we  had  had  time  to  take  in  the  magnificent 
panorama  we  rolled  into  Llanberis,  where  a 
comfortable,  if  high-priced,  hotel  received 
us.  Comfortable,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
glaring  white  walls  of  our  chambers,  with 
the  beds  facing  the  great  windows,  un- 
curtained save  by  white  shades,  that  did 
but  intensify  the  glare.  But  we  pinned 
up  our  shawls,  and  made  the  best  of  it, 
remembering  Shakespeare's  tourist,  who 
says,  ' '  When  I  was  at  home  I  was  in  a  ^ 
better  place,  but  travellers  must  be  con-  ' 
tent." 

We  were  tired  enough  to  go  to  bed  ;  but 
there  was  the  pretty,  picturesquely  set  town, 
at  which  we  were  fain  to  take  a  peep.  Its 
slate  quarries  employ  twenty-five  thoiLsand 
men.  The  owner  gave  them  three  days' 
holiday  at  the  time  of  the  Jubilee,  and 
offered  to  pay  the  fare  of  all  who  wanted 
to  go  up  to  London.  Only  forty  out  of  the 
whole  small  army  accepted  the  offer.  I 
asked  why.     The  answer  was  that  to  the 


36  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

"Welsh  quarrymen  London  seems  as  far  off 
as  the  moon,  and  ahnost  as  inaccessible. 
No  such  remote  and  hazardous  journeyings 
for  them.  The  wise  man  stays  at  home  of 
a  holiday,  and  smokes  liis  pipe  at  the  door 
of  his  cabin ;  or  lie  takes  a  stride  over  the 
hills ;  or,  if  musically  inclined,  he  goes  to 
ah  Eisteddfod. 

We  had  been  shown  a  photograph  of  a 
charming  little  inn,  all  gables,  and  bay-win- 
dows, and  shaded  porches,  vine-covered 
to  the  chimneys,  rose-wreathed,  and  em- 
bosomed in  stately  trees.  It  was  in  Bettws- 
y-coed,  if  you  please, — pronounced,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  come  to  it  by  phonetic 
spelling,  Bettus-y-coyd,  —  and  it  looked  like 
a  very  haven  of  rest.  There  we  determined 
to  put  up  for  repairs ;  and  after  having 
come  to  that  conclusion  (for  we  were  not 
travelling  by  rule  and  measure) ,  everything 
imaginable,  from  sewing  on  buttons  and 
mending  gloves,  to  the  writing  of  inter- 
minable letters  "home,"  was  put  off  till 


A   WEEK    IN   WALES.  yj 

we  should  get  to  Bettws-y-coed,  the  fair 
' '  Station-in-the- Wood . "  It  became  a  stand- 
ard joke,  a  by-word.  Everything  would 
come  to  pass  when  we  got  to  Bettws-y-coed. 
Thither  we  went  the  next  morning,  —  a  six- 
teen-mile drive  through  the  famous  pass  of 
Llanberis,  —  in  a  queer  vehicle  called  a 
"break,"  not  unlike  a  Scotch  wagonette, 
but  capable  of  holding  at  least  a  dozen 
people.  A  fine  coach  starts  from  another 
hotel,  but  as  to  this  fact  our  landlady  was, 
unfortunately,  in  the  depths  of  ignorance. 
But  whether  by  break,  or  by  coach,  the 
drive  was  something  to  store  away  in  one's 
memory.  All  the  way,  even  when  we  could 
not  see  it,  we  felt  the  near  presence  of  the 
Welsh  mountain,  and  knew  it  was  tower- 
ing above  the  long  valley,  with  its  attend- 
ant peaks,  Lliwedd  and  Crib  Coch,  on 
either  side.  jNIuch  of  the  way  the  rugged 
hills  shut  us  in,  lifting  their  strong,  bare, 
rocky  shoulders  close  beside  us,  to  right 
and  to  left,  and  leaving  just  space  enough 


45264^^ 


38  A    WEKK    IN    WALES. 

for  the  roadway.  Tliis  was  as  smooth  and 
level  as  a  floor,  though  we  gradually  as- 
cended to  the  height  of  1250  feet.  Border- 
ing the  road,  in  lieu  of  the  English  hedges, 
were  broad  stone  walls,  so  solidly  put  to- 
gether that  they  looked  as  if  they  might 
last  forever.  Occasionally  we  caught  sight, 
beyond,  of  Alps  on  Alps  sharply  defined 
against  the  clear  blue  sky,  while  the  low 
valleys  lay  deep  in  purple  shadow,  or 
golden  with  the  indescribable  glory  of  that 
summer  day. 

At  length  we  drew  up  before  the  door 
of  the  little  inn  of  Pen-y-gwryd,  ' '  at 
the  meeting  of  the  three  great  valleys,  the 
central  heart  of  the  mountains."  As  the 
hostlers  watered  the  horses,  we  looked 
about  us  with  interested  eyes,  for  this  is 
the  scene  of  a  powerful  chapter  in  Kings- 
ley's  Two  Years  Ago  ;  and  it  was  from 
this  hospitable  door  that  Elsley  Vavasour 
rushed,  like  the  madman  that  he  was,  for 
his  fearful  midnight  flight  up  the  Glyder 


A    WEEK    IN   WALES.  39 

Vawr.  "  P-e-n-y  " — spelled  Saint  Katha- 
rine, looking  with  dismay  at  the  array  of 
consonants.  "How  are  we  ever  to  pro- 
nounce it  ?  And  how  are  we  to  remember 
it  unless  we  can  give  it  a  name  ?  " 

"  ire  call  it  'Penny-go-rood,'"  laughed 
the  soft  voice  of  a  young  English  lady. 
"Be  content  with  that.  Of  course  it  is  not 
right,  but  you  will  hardly  get  any  nearer  to 
it."  Therefore  as  Penny-go-rood  the  bright 
little  spot,  with  its  look  of  hearty  good 
cheer,  was  labelled  and  stored  away,  —  a 
picture  to  keep  through  all  the  coming  years. 

Here  two  Welshwomen,  of  perhaps  the 
lower  middle  class,  though  it  was  not  quite 
easy  to  place  them,  strode  out  of  the  inn, 
each  with  a  black  hand-bag,  and  scrambled 
into  the  two  vacant  seats  in  the  break. 
They  were  incredibly  ugly,  — sisters,  if  not 
twins,  —  as  alike  as  two  peas ;  both  tall, 
gaunt,  hard-featured,  without  one  trace  of 
womanly  grace  or  softness.  Both  wore 
plain,  straight-skirted  gowns  of  shiny  black 


40  A    WEEK    IX   WALES. 

alpaca,  which  were  well  enough  ;  but  on 
their  masses  of  coarse  hair  were  perched 
jaunty  little  white  straw  sailor-hats,  with 
hands  and  streamers  of  blue  ribbon,  form- 
ing two  most  incongi-uous  halos  for  their 
harsh,  middle-aged  faces. 

At  Capel  Curig  we  stopped  for  luncheon. 
"When  we  reached  Bettws-y-coed,  the  driver 
reined  up  at  the  door  of  a  hotel  which  was 
not  the  one  for  which  we  were  booked. 
Not  for  love  nor  money  would  he  go  an 
inch  further.  "The  end  of  me  journey, 
mum,"  he  reiterated  over  and  over,  the 
sole  response  to  all  our  entreaties  and  ex- 
postulations. Out  came  the  landlady,  a 
tall,  slight,  graceful  young  woman,  who 
cordially  begged  us  to  alight.  The  pretty 
inn  looked  inviting,  and  she  was  entranc- 
ing, with  her  soft  dark  eyes  and  cooing 
voice,  tender  as  a  dove's.  But  we  ex- 
plained as  well  as  we  could  that  we  had 
engaged  rooms  at  the  house  of  her  rival, 
and  that  there  our  letters  were  to  meet  us, 


A   WEEK    IX   WALES.  4I 

etc.  Finally  she  magnanimously  ordered 
her  own  "Boots"  to  drive  us  to  the  other 
hotel,  waving  us  an  adieu  with  the  grace 
and  suavity  of  a  duchess. 

The  photograph  had  not  done  it  justice. 
The  low  stone  cottage,  wide,  roomy,  and 
rambling,  with  its  garniture  of  ivies  and 
roses,  now  in  the  perfection  of  their  bloom, 
in  its  own  fair,  shaded,  yet  flowery  grounds, 
was  prettier  than  any  picture.  The  village 
itself  is,  indeed,  "beautiful  for  situation," 
with  the  "mountains  round  about  it,  as 
they  were  round  about  Jerusalem."  The 
house  was  full,  and  there  was  much  coming 
and  going,  — coach  rides  and  "  tramps  "  to 
the  hills,  to  the  waterfalls,  to  castle  this 
and  castle  that,  and,  more  than  all,  to 
Snowdon.  But  the  mending  being  done 
and  the  letters  vn-itten,  we  were  content 
to  sit  and  rest,  dreaming  the  hours  away 
in  pleasant  idleness,  two  happy  lotus-eaters 
that  we  were.  Why  should  we  try  to  see 
everything  ? 


42  A    WEEK    IN    WALES. 

When  you  are  in  Kome,  do  as  the  Ro- 
mans do :  which,  being  interpreted,  means, 
when  you  are  in  AVales,  go  to  the  Welsh 
church.  When  Sunday  came,  as  the  long 
peaceful  day  drew  near  its  close,  we  went 
down  the  shady  road  and  over  the  bridge, 
in  search  of  the  parish  church.  There  is 
also  an  English  church,  much  finer  and 
more  exclusive,  we  were  told.  But  we 
abided  by  our  first  choice.  The  building 
itself  is  modern,  but  the  grounds  look  so 
old  that  it  is  probable  it  occupies  the  site 
of  an  older  structure.  A  pavement  of 
broad  slate  flagging  runs  round  it,  bordered 
with  shrubs  and  flowers.  Some  very  old 
graves  were  in  the  enclosure.  There  were 
several  doors,  and  it  was  a  question  at 
which  we  were  expected  to  enter.  Two 
chubby-faced  boys  came  round  the  corner 
in  great  haste.  "  Choir  boys,"  I  said,  and 
was  fain  to  ask  for  guidance;  but  they 
vanished  like  two  flashes  of  lightning.  At 
length,  by  ones  and  by  twos,  the  worship- 


A    WEEK    IX    WALES.  43 

pers  began  to  assemble,  and  we  followed 
the  crowd.  It  is  a  curious  place,  to  Ameri- 
can eyes,  that  low  Welsh  church,  —  long, 
narrow,  with  stone  walls,  immense  stone 
columns,  brick-paved  floor  in  the  nave  and 
choir,  and  tiled  floor  in  the  chancel.  Im- 
perishable it  looked,  even  though  it  is  the 
product  of  our  ephemeral  to-day,  —  as  if  it 
might  outlast  the  pyramids ;  and  it  is  as 
severely  plain  as  any  flagstaff.  The  con- 
gregation, made  up  as  it  was  of  the  common 
people,  the  working  classes,  interested  us 
greatly.  There  was  hardly  a  person  in  the 
seats  who  would  have  been  called,  in  com- 
mon parlance,  a  lady  or  a  gentleman.  The 
clothes  worn  were  rough  and  plain,  but 
generally  clean  and  comfortable.  Many 
of  the  men  were  in  their  shirt-sleeves.  Be- 
hind us  sat  an  old  woman  in  black,  the 
oddest  of  apparitions,  who  stared  at  us  as 
if  we  belonged  to  another  world.  So  small, 
so  withered,  so  weather-beaten,  was  she,  in 
a  costume  that  belonged  to  past  ages,  that 


44  A   WEEK    IN    WALES. 

we  certainly  felt  as  if  she  did  not  belong  to 
ours.  A  surpliced  choir  of  men  and  boys 
—  alas  !  that  I  should  have  to  say  it,  but 
those  surplices  badly  needed  soap  and 
water  —  discoursed  sweet  music,  singing 
to  Hamburg  and  other  familiar  old  tunes 
their  wild  Welsh  hymns.  The  air  of  the 
place  was  reverent.  The  voices  in  the  re- 
sponses were  low  and  earnest.  The  young 
men  and  maidens  were  quiet  and  attentive; 
their  elders  were  devout.  As  for  the  ser- 
mon, I  understood  but  three  words  of  it, 
"Apostle  Paul"  and  "Galatia";  but  it 
was,  after  all,  as  interesting  as  any  I  ever 
listened  to.  Earnestness  is  contagious,  and 
the  pale,  earnest  speaker  held  our  absorbed 
attention  from  first  to  last.  But  it  was  easy 
to  follow  the  service,  which  was  that  of  the 
Church  of  England ;  and  prayer  is  prayer, 
whether  the  tongue  is  Welsh  or  English. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  a  baby  was 
presented  for  baptism,  a  tiny  creature,  with 
a  long  white  robe  and  short  sleeves  tied 


A   WEEK   IN   WALES.  45 

with  "blue  ribbons.  The  young  mother  was 
in  deep  black,  as  was  the  godmother.  One 
of  the  surpliced  choir  acted  as  godfather, 
and  we  fancied  the  child's  real  father  was 
dead. 

With  Bettws-y-coed  our  week  in  Wales 
ended.  We  wanted  to  go  to  Llangollen, 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  the  Ladies  of 
Llangollen,  and  up  the  vale  of  Llanrwst, 
and  to  see  the  wild  gorges  of  Carnedd, 
Dafydd,  and  Carnedd  Llewelyn.  But  life 
is  short,  and  journey ings  are  long.  So  we 
retraced  our  steps  to  Chester,  thus  gladden- 
ing our  eyes  with  another  sight  of  beautiful, 
many-towered  Conway,  and  then  slowly 
made  our  wandering  way  southward. 


II. 

BANBURY   CAKES 
AND  THE   ISLE   OF   WIGHT. 

TT  was  nearly  sunset  when  we  entered  the 
restaurant  connected  with  the  station, 
and  seated  ourselves  at  a  little  round  table 
to  await  the  coming  of  the  small  steamer 
that  was  to  "ferry  us  over  the  feriy." 
For  we  were  at  Stoke's  Bay,  bound  for 
the  Isle  of  Wight. 

A  cool  breeze  swept  in  from  the  sea 
refreshingly.  The  great  white  room,  silent 
and  deserted  at  this  hour,  was  delightfully 
clean  and  fresh,  with  its  spotless,  shining 
windows  and  dustless  floor.  The  long 
counter,  behind  which  waited  two  whole- 
some-looking women,  was  laden  with 
goodies  so  invitingly  displayed  that  we  at 
once  discovered  we  were  famished. 

"  It  will  be  late  when  we  reach  Ventnor," 
46 


BANBURY   CAKES.  47 

said  Saint  Katharine.  "  What  if  we  were 
to  dine  here  ?" 

We  could  not  dine,  strictly  speaking ;  but 
there  was  plenty  of  delicious  milk,  with 
tarts  of  all  sorts  and  sizes,  and  no  end  of 
buns. 

"But  I  don't  want  buns,"  remarked  one 
of  us,  removing  her  gloves.  "I  am  tired 
of  them.  What  do  you  suppose  those 
brown  things  are,  under  that  bell-glass?" 

What,  indeed,  but  Banbury  cakes  ? 
"Banbury  cakes,  baked  fresh  at  Banbury 
this  very  day,  mem,  I  do  assure  you," 
said  one  of  the  attendants,  smilingly. 

Here  was  an  opportunity  not  to  be 
slighted.  It  might  be  the  one  chance  of 
a  lifetime.  Had  we  not  read  of  Banbury 
cakes  more  years  ago  than  we  cared  to 
acknowledge  ?  Had  we  not  tasted  their 
spicy,  sugared  sweetness,  and  inhaled  their 
enticing  odours,  as  we  sat  at  Barmecide 
feasts  wath  many  a  child-heroine  in  the 
far-away  days  of  short  jackets  and  ruffled 


48  BANBUUY    CAKES. 

aprons  ?  And  now  here  they  were  before 
our  astonished  eyes,  —  "  baked  fresh  at 
Banbury  this  very  day  !"  Banbury  cakes 
■we  must  have  if  they  cost  a  fortune ;  — 
and  very .  good  they  proved  to  be,  even 
when  brought  into  close  contrast  with  a 
child's  fancy  of  "lucent  syrups,  tinct  with 
cinnamon."  Just  as  we  finished  the  last 
crumb,  we  heard  the  whistle  of  the  ap- 
proaching steamer. 

Sky  and  sea  were  both  aflame  as  we 
embarked  for  the  short  half-hour's  sail 
across  the  narrow  channel  that  divides  the 
island  from  the  mainland,  and  on  either 
low  green  shore  cottage  windows  shone 
and  sparkled  in  the  "  last  red  light  of 
day."  But  even  before  we  reached  Ryde 
the  gray  of  twilight  encompassed  us ;  and, 
taking  the  cars,  we  rode  to  Yentnor,  which 
was  our  objective  point,  in  fast-gathering 
darkness. 

"  If  you  go  to  the  Isle  of  "Wight,  as  of 
course  you  will,"  said  a  friend  who  knows 


BANBURY   CAKES.  49 

her  England  as  she  does  her  alphabet, 
"make  Ventnor  your  headquarters;  and 
if  you  want  rest,  quiet,  and  comfort,  stop 
at  the  'Crab  and  Lobster.'  " 

We  found  all  three  in  that  quaintest  of 
inns,  which  has  been  in  the  same  family 
for  generations,  and  is  now  at  once  the 
pride  and  dependence  of  four  young 
women  —  sisters  —  who  manage  its  affairs 
and  make  it  a  home  indeed  for  happy 
wayfarers.  The  house  itself  has  the  ad- 
vantage of  belonging  both  to  the  old  and 
the  new  regime.  It  has  modern  conven- 
iences combined  with  ancient  picturesque- 
ness.  The  "  old  house,"  as  it  is  called,  is 
more  ornamental  than  useful  now  in  its 
decrepitude,  and  is  used  only  in  emergen- 
cies. But  it  makes  a  marvellously  pretty 
picture  with  its  low,  broad  roof,  up  and 
over  which  the  roses  clamber,  flaunting 
their  crimson  banners  from  the  very  chim- 
ney tops,  and  its  small  latticed  windows 
with  their  snowy  draperies.      The   whole 


50  BANBURY   CAKES. 

place  was  exquisite  that  night  as  we  drove 
in  behind  the  heavy  wall  of  trees  that 
shuts  it  from  the  near  street  in  a  sweet 
seclusion  of  its  own.  It  was  the  height 
of  the  rose  season,  and  every  separate, 
dancing  spray  was  aglow  with  colour  and 
laden  with  perfume.  Red  and  pink,  white 
and  yellow,  the  great  buds  and  blossoms 
shone  in  the  soft,  bright  light  that  streamed 
from  every  window,  and  from  the  hospi- 
table doorway  in  which  stood  two  of  our 
hostesses  waiting  to  bid  us  welcome.  It 
was  a  veritable  homecoming  to  two  weary 
wanderers. 

Here  we  rested  in  a  charmed  repose  for 
three  whole  days.  Why  should  we  go  to 
Cowes  or  to  Carisbrook?  Would  the 
world  come  to  an  end  if  we  did  not  see 
Osborne  House?  The  curse  of  travelling, 
its  hete  noire^  is  the  attempt  to  do  and  to 
see  everything.  It  is  really  possible  to 
omit  some  of  the  advertised  excursions, 
and  to  leave  unseen  many  things  that  are 


BANBURY   CAKES.  5  I 

well  worth  seeing,  and  yet  be  none  the 
worse  for  it  in  mind  or  body. 

But  you  must  see  everything,  because 
life  is  short  and  ways  are  long,  and  you 
may  never  come  again  ?  This  is  quite  pos- 
sible. Yet  a  jar,  whatever  be  its  capacity, 
can  hold  only  just  so  much.  It  is  better 
to  carry  home  with  you  a  few  strong, 
clear,  well-defined  pictures,  to  be  remem- 
bered and  delighted  in  to  your  dying  day, 
rather  than  a  jumble  of  impressions  —  a 
medley  of  half-seen  and  wholly  undigested 
glimpses. 

So  we  read  letters  and  we  w^rote  them  ; 
we  brought  out  our  work-bags  and  mended 
our  gloves  and  stockings ;  we  lingered  and 
loitered  over  our  daintily  served  meals 
in  the  pleasant  coffee-room  where  a  little 
round  table  was  always  spread  for  us  in 
front  of  one  of  the  broad  windows,  en- 
joying the  spotless  linen,  the  shining  silver, 
and  the  good  bread,  and  feasting  our  eyes 
on  the  velvet-throated  gloxinias  that  never 


52  BANBURY   CAKES. 

failed  to  nod  and  smile  at  us  from  a 
great  porcelain  jar  in  the  middle  of  the 
board.  We  pored  over  enticing  books  of 
travel,  covering  ground  we  had  trodden, 
or  were  to  tread ;  and  we  climbed  the 
high  hill  against  which  the  ' '  Crab  and  Lob- 
ster" leans,  ascending  its  terraced  heights 
by  easy,  winding,  flower-bordered  paths, 
till  we  reached  the  summer-house  and 
flagstaff  at  the  top,  from  which  the  eye 
takes  in  the  fair  island  and  the  wide 
sweep  of  the  blue,  far-reaching  sea. 

But,  whatever  was  left  out  of  our  pro- 
gramme, it  surely  must  not  be  Bon  Church ; 
and  thither  we  went  one  sunny  afternoon, 
through  charming  scenery  and  delightfully 
winding  ways. 

No  service  has  been  held  in  the  little  old 
church  for  more  than  forty  years.  The 
rusty  gate  was  fastened,  and  at  first  it 
seemed  as  if  entrance  was  impossible.  We 
rattled  the  latch,  but  no  one  came.  At 
last,  however,  as  we  leaned  wistfully  over 


BANBURY   CAKES.  53 

the  low  paling,  we  saw  an  old  man  in  the 
distance  sitting  on  a  tombstone,  reading. 
AVe  shouted  and  beckoned,  and  when  at 
last  we  succeeded  in  attracting  his  at- 
tention. Old  Mortality  slowly  rose  and 
calmly  surveyed  us  till  the  silver  persua- 
sion of  a  proffered  shilling  induced  him 
to  let  us  in.  There  is  no  eloquence  to 
be  compared  with  it,  unless  it  be  that 
of  a  golden  guinea. 

A  queer,  quaint  atom  of  a  place  it  is  — 
this  old  Bon  Church,  built  by  the  Saxons 
in  the  sixth  century,  and  rebuilt  by  the 
Normans  in  the  eleventh.  If  not  the  very- 
smallest  church  in  the  kingdom,  it  must 
be  one  of  the  smallest.  A  simple  parallelo- 
gram without  transepts,  it  is  so  nan-ow 
that  when  Saint  Katharine  and  I  joined 
hands  we  could  reach  across  the  entire 
width  of  the  building,  cur  fingers  coming 
within  an  Inch  or  two  of  the  walls  on  either 
side.  The  house  is  quite  dismantled,  and 
very  little  of  the  odour  of  sanctity  lingers 


54  BAXBURY    CAKES. 

about  the  time-worn  walls  to-day,  the 
west  end  being  utilized  as  a  storehouse  for 
numberless  hoes,  spades,  rakes,  and  the 
like.  Doubtless  these  profane  implements 
are  used  in  the  care  of  the  churchyard, 
which  is  well  kept  and  most  picturesque,  at 
once  gay  with  flowers  and  sombre  with  yew 
and  ivy.  Here,  among  a  host  of  the  name- 
less dead,  sleeps  John  Sterling,  the  friend  of 
Maurice  and  Monckton  Milnes,  of  Coleridge 
and  Carlyle.  Here  lies  the  author  of  "  The 
Shadow  of  the  Cross,"  over  whose  low 
grave  a  long  iron  cross  is  so  placed  that  a 
perfect  shadow  is  thrown  upon  it  whenever 
the  sun  shines. 

Leaving  the  sleepers  to  their  long  repose, 
we  bade  good-by  to  our  ancient,  white- 
haired  cicerone,  and  returned  to  our  car- 
riage. As  I  turned  for  a  last  look  at  the 
peaceful,  sunlit  spot,  I  caught  another 
glimpse  of  him;  he  had  gone  back  to  his 
tombstone  and  his  book. 

Extremes   meet.    Scarcely  had  we  lost 


BANBURY    CAKES.  55 

sight  of  him  before  we  passed  a  thatched 
cottage,  in  front  of  which  stood,  in  solitary- 
dignity,  the  very  smallest  of  wee  boys.  On 
his  little  curly  head  was  a  straw  hat,  with 
so  wide  a  brim  that  its  wearer  looked  for 
all  the  world  like  a  well-grown  mush- 
room. As  we  passed  him,  without  smil- 
ing or  brightening,  or  so  much  as  moving 
a  muscle  of  his  face,  he  bowed  down,  down, 
till  the  brim  of  that  immense  hat  swept  the 
ground  ;  then  straightening  up  his  small 
figure,  he  stared  stolidly  after  us,  still  with- 
out the  least  suspicion  of  a  smile.  But  we 
laughed  if  he  did  not,  wondering  what 
impulse  had  swayed  the  small  brain  and 
led  to  that  profound  salutation. 

Ventnor  is  famous  for  the  softness  of  its 
air,  and  here  are  the  Hospitals  for  Con- 
sumptives —  a  fine  group  or  range  of  build- 
ings, in  charge  of  the  Sisters  of  Saint  Mar- 
garet, and  under  the  especial  patronage  of 
the  Queen.  We  had  not  the  heart  to  visit 
them,  as  curious  sightseers. 


56  BANBURY   CAKES. 

Who  ever  went  to  England  without  long- 
ing to  hear  the  song  of  the  skylark,  Shel- 
ley's "sprite,  or  bird "  ?  Not  we,  at  least ; 
yet  we  had  not  caught  one  clear,  pure  note, 
born  of  the  "rapture  so  divine."  We  had 
been  told  that  the  Isle  of  Wight  would 
surely  grant  us  our  desire.  But  whether 
we  drove  or  walked,  whether  we  asked  the 
question  of  lady  or  ploughboy,  the  answer 
was  always  the  same  in  effect.  Oh,  yes  ! 
there  were  plenty  of  skylarks.  They  fre- 
quented yonder  meadow,  or  they  soared 
from  yonder  hill.  They  sang  this  morning, 
or  yesterday,  or  last  week.  If  we  were  in  a 
certain  spot  to-morrow,  at  a  certain  hour, 
we  would  be  sure  to  hear  them.  But  we 
never  did.  It  was  a  good  deal  like  John 
Burroughs's  tantalizing  search  for  a  night- 
ingale. Saint  Katharine  flattered  herself 
that  she  heard  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  ;  but 
I  was  never  certain  even  of  that. 

One  cannot  linger  in  Lotus-land  forever, 
and  the  hour  came  when  we  were  obliged 


BANBURY   CAKES.  57 

to  leave  Yentnor.  It  was  the  morning  of 
the  Fourth  of  July,  and  surely  an  entirely 
new  way  of  celebrating  that  great  and  glori- 
ous day  had  fallen  to  our  lot.  We  were  to 
go  by  coach  to  Freshwater  Bay,  about  half- 
way round  the  island,  and  a  distance  of 
twenty-one  miles.  Xot  a  firecracker  greets 
our  ears,  not  a  torpedo  explodes  beneath 
our  feet,  not  a  cannon  deafens  us  with  its 
reverberations.  But  the  delight,  the  exhila- 
ration of  that  ride  is  something  never  to  be 
forgotten. 

Imagine  us  on  the  highest  of  the  five 
seats  on  the  top  of  the  coach  —  so  high, 
indeed,  that  we  can  overlook  walls  and 
hedges,  and  get  an  unobstructed  view 
on  either  side.  The  inside  of  the  coach,  it 
may  be  remarked,  is  given  over  to  the  sole 
occupancy  of  hampers,  baskets,  and  port- 
manteaus. How  did  we  get  up  there  ? 
Let  me  confess  that  I  looked  and  trembled, 
and  said  to  my  secret  soul  that  I  could 
never    do    it.     But,    lo !    out    comes    the 


58  BANBURY   CAKES. 

guard  with  a  broad,  strong  flight  of  steps 
armed  with  iron  hooks  at  the  top.  These 
are  fastened  to  tlie  coach,  and  up  we  walk, 
as  easily  as  up  a  flight  of  stairs.  Below  us, 
in  front,  are  two  tiers  of  passengers,  and 
as  many  more  at  our  backs.  The  four 
horses  shine  like  satin,  and  are  gay  with 
brass  ornaments.  Our  driver,  in  high, 
pearl-coloured  hat  and  elegantly  fitting 
gloves,  gathers  up  the  reins ;  the  guard, 
resplendent  in  scarlet  coat  and  black,  gold- 
laced  hat,  leaps  up  behind,  and  gives  a  long 
resounding  peal  of  his  brass  horn  ;  the  por- 
ters salute  ;  the  landlady,  making  a  picture 
of  herself  in  her  crisp  muslin  gown  under 
the  rose-wreathed  porch,  bows  and  smiles 
her  farewell  —  and  off  we  go  in  the  clear 
morning  air,  under  skies  of  deepest  azure 
and  by  the  shores  of  a  tranquil  sea.  Occa- 
sionally we  lose  sight  of  the  sea  entirely, 
and  W' ind  about  in  what  seems  a  most  pur- 
poseless fashion,  through  bowery  lanes ; 
past  picturesque  cottages,  each  one  of  which 


BANBURY   CAKES.  59 

is  a  rose  garden  to  the  top  of  its  chimney  ; 
through  flower-sweet  nooks  ;  through  deep, 
dark,  green  recesses,  cool  and  shadowy  ; 
beside  ivy-grown  walls  given  over  to  beau- 
tiful decay,  and  up  lovely,  companionable 
hills,  verdure-crowned  to  the  very  summit. 

"All  we  have  heard  of  the  beauty  of 
this  island  falls  short  of  the  reality,"  cries 
Saint  Katharine.  "  Can  you  imagine  any- 
thing more  perfect  than  this  day  and  this 
drive?" 

Flowers  —  flowers  everywhere  !  Did  they 
know  how  we  loved  them,  the  dainty  dar- 
lings ?  They  beamed  upon  us  from  every 
hedgerow,  they  gave  us  glad  good-morrows 
from  every  meadow  and  roadside.  As  we 
were  going  up  a  long  hill,  three  little  girls 
emerged  from  behind  a  thicket,  each  with 
her  apron  full  of  wild  things  —  common, 
hardy  blossoms,  gay  and  bright,  and  feath- 
ery fern-fronds,  tied  up  with  blades  of  grass. 
Without  a  word  the  little  lassies  tossed  their 
posies  up  to  us  —  a  fragrant  shower. 


6o  BANBURY   CAKES. 

No  doubt  the  pretty  tableau  -was  repeated 
day  after  day ;  and  no  doubt,  also,  that  the 
children  fully  expected  the  shower  of  six- 
pences they  received  in  return.  But  who 
cared?     It  did  not  spoil  the  picture. 

A  few  miles  further  on  our  courtly  Jehu 
relaxed  the  reins  and  let  the  horses  take 
their  own  pace  as  we  approached  a  stone 
cottage,  thatched  and  garlanded.  On  the 
steps  of  the  low  porch  stood  the  shyest  of 
wee  lassies  in  a  pink  frock  and  white  pina- 
fore, holding  in  her  two  chubby  arms  a 
shallow,  tray-like  basket  of  fresh,  dewy 
roses,  set  in  their  own  green  leaves.  The 
little  creature  could  not  have  been  more 
than  five  or  six  years  old,  and  hardly  dared 
to  raise  her  eyes  as  she  lifted  her  basket, 
shyly  swaying  from  side  to  side. 

There  be  roses  and  roses.  Every  lady 
on  the  coach  exclaimed  with  delight  over 
these  particular  ones. 

"Hand  up  the  basket,  little  Polly,"  said 
the  driver ;  and  forthwith  the  gallant,  red- 


BANBURY   CAKES.  6l 

coated  guard  leaped  down  to  receive  it. 
Evidently  "little  Polly"  was  a  favourite 
with  the  powers  that  be.  When  she  darted 
into  the  house  with  her  empty  basket,  every 
man  and  woman  of  us  wore  roses  in  button- 
hole or  belt,  and  was  ready  to  do  battle  for 
York  or  Lancaster. 

Whether  they  had  flowers  to  sell  or  no, 
the  advent  of  the  coach  was,  to  all  appear- 
ance, a  great  event  for  the  children,  who 
made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  wave  their 
hats,  bow,  clap,  and  cheer  as  we  passed  by. 
And  children  abound  in  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
as  well  as  roses.  On  a  wall  near  one  small 
house  I  counted  no  less  than  eleven  young- 
sters in  battered  straw  hats,  perched  all  in 
a  row  like  the  ten  little  Indians.  Every 
hat  came  off,  and  every  shrill  piping  voice 
shouted  "  Hooray  !  hooray  !  hooray!  " 

If  I  remember  rightly,  we  did  not  talk 
much  during  that  ride.  Our  eyes  were  too 
busy.  If  for  a  moment  there  was  nothing 
else  to  see,  there  was  always  the  ivy  run- 


62  BANBURY    CAKES. 

ning  rampant  everywhere  in  riotous  pro- 
fusion, growing  and  bourgeoning  out  of 
pure  delight,  for  the  very  joy  of  being. 

"Saint  Katharine,"  I  whispered,  "what 
do  you  think  of  trying  to  grow  little  spin- 
dling ivies  in  six-inch  pots,  and  then  nursing 
them  through  long  Vermont  winters  ?  Yet, 
after  all,  half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread ; 
and  I  know  we  shall  go  home,  like  other 
tourists,  laden  with  '  slips.'  " 

Which  we  did  ;  and  they  are  alive  and 
flourishing  to  this  day. 

Two  horsemen  appeared  over  the  brow  of 
a  hill.  He  of  the  pearl-coloured  hat  peered 
forward  for  a  moment,  and  then  drew  reins 
excitedly,  bringing  his  steeds  almost  to  a 
standstill  as,  half  rising,  he  addressed  his 
passengers  with  impressive  solemnity. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "yon- 
der is  the  Member  from  Lincoln !  It  will 
be  something  to  have  seen  his  honour.  He 
owns  fourteen  thousand  acres  about  here  — 
the  best  part  of  the  island,  in  fact." 


BAXBURY    CAKES.  63 

Needless  to  say  the  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
being  thus  adjured,  were  all  agog  to  behold 
his  honour  the  "Member  from  Lincoln." 
On  he  came,  all  unconsciously,  a  quiet  old 
man,  in  a  slouched  hat  that  nearly  hid  his 
face,  mounted  on  a  brown  horse  as  quiet 
and  unpretentious  as  himself.  He  looked 
like  a  well-to-do  New  England  farmer  in 
his  Sunday  clothes.  But  oh !  the  magnifi- 
cence, the  splendour,  of  the  groom,  in  high 
hat  and  brass  buttons,  who  galloped  at  a  lit- 
tle distance  behind  him,  on  a  shining,  coal- 
black  charger  whose  dainty  feet  spurned  the 
ground  as  he  wheeled  and  curveted  !  Lan- 
guage fails  in  the  attempt  to  do  him  justice. 
Suffice  it  to  say  that  he  did  credit  to  the 
fourteen  thousand  acres  and  to  his  master's 
position. 

Twice  during  the  twenty-one-mile  drive 
we  stopped  to  change  horses,  during  which 
performance  home-brewed  beer  and  glasses 
of  milk  were  brought  out  for  the  refreshment 
of  the  passengers.     Sooth  to  say,  the  milk 


64  BANBURY   CAKES. 

was  more  popular  than  the  beer,  even  with 
the  men  ;  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  a 
woman  behind  us,  after  disposing  with  great 
gusto  of  an  immense  mug  of  the  foaming, 
odorous  fluid,  exclaimed  as  she  wiped  her 
lips,  "That's  the  very  best  beer  I've  tasted 
since  I  drank  me  own  brew  ! " 

We  reached  Freshwater  about  one  o'clock; 
whence,  after  luncheon,  the  same  coach 
took  us  four  miles  further  on,  to  Alum  Bay 
and  the  Needles  —  curious  rock  formations 
with  some  bright  colours,  reminding  us  a 
little,  and  in  a  very  far-off  way,  of  the 
Pictured  Rocks  of  Lake  Superior.  "We 
scrambled  up  and  down  the  rather  uncom- 
fortable descent,  and  tried  to  think  we  were 
well  paid  for  our  exertions  ;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  the  attempt  was  rather  a  failure. 
Then  we  returned  to  Freshwater,  where  we 
were  to  pass  the  night. 

"When  you  are  at  Freshwater,"  it  had 
been  said  to  us  time  and  again,  "you  will 
be  only  a  mile  or  two  from  Farringf ord  — 
Lord  Tennyson's  place." 


BAXBURY   CAKES.  65 

"  Yes,"  we  answered,  "  and,  what's  more, 
we  are  going  to  see  him." 

Then  would  come  shrugs,  hesitation,  and 
glances  of  dismay. 

"But,  my  dear  madam,"  after  a  dubious 
pause,  "I  —  I — would  hardly  advise  it. 
We  seldom  —  that  is  —  well.  Lord  Tenny- 
son, don't  you  know,  is  not  always  —  ex- 
actly—  eh  —  "  etc.,  etc. 

We  laughed  and  said  nothing.  It  was 
not  worth  while  to  explain  to  strangers  that 
in  a  sacred  recess  of  my  portfolio  there  was 
a  precious  letter,  given  me  unsought  —  a 
letter  that  I  felt  sure  would  prove  an  open 
sesame  even  to  the  doors  of  that  enchanted 
castle  at  Freshwater. 

So,  after  resting  and  freshening  up  a 
little,  we  put  on  our  best  gloves  and  called 
for  a  carriage.  As  this  seemed  an  occasion 
pretty  well  tied  up  with  red  tape,  and  there 
really  was  danger  that  we  might  not  get 
near  enough  to  the  door  to  present  our 
credentials,  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to 


66  BANBUIIY    CAKES. 

write  a  little  note  in  advance  saying  that 
not  even,  etc.,  etc.,  would  give  me  courage, 
etc.,  etc.,  if  I  were  not  armed  with  the  en- 
closed letter  from  our  common  friend  X. 
Y.  Z.,  etc. 

♦'  The  carriage  waits,  mem." 

Down  we  went.  "  To  Lord  Tennyson's," 
I  said  as  we  took  our  seats. 

But  James,  or  whatever  his  name  was, 
looked  at  me  as  if  he  feared  I  was  demented. 
Nevertheless  he  touched  his  hat  gravely. 
"  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  me  lady,  but  there's  no 
getting  in  there  without  a  letter." 

"Very  well,"  I  said.  "I  have  one. 
Drive  on." 

We  rolled  along  between  closely  trimmed 
hedges  and  past  fields  of  deepest  emerald. 
At  length  the  trees  to  our  left  grew  denser 
—  a  close,  high  wall  of  green. 

"Lord  Tennyson's  park,  mem,"  said 
tlie  driver,  making  a  wide  sweep  with  his 
whip.  I  confess  my  heart  beat  a  little  more 
quickly    than  its  wont.     Were   we  really 


BANBURY   CAKES»  6/ 

about  to  beard  the  lion  in  his  den?  But 
that  passed,  as  a  wave  of  memory  swept 
over  me,  and  words  I  had  known  and  loved 
from  childhood  went  surging  through  heart 
and  brain.  If  a  slight  tremor  remained, 
what  then?  There  are  crowned  kings  in 
whose  presence  it  is  no  shame  to  tremble. 

The  house,  hidden  by  its  cordon  of 
stately  trees,  was  not  in  sight.  Ere  long 
we  drew  up  before  the  lodge  —  a  pretty 
stone  cottage,  with  the  usual  environment 
of  ivies  and  roses. 

Alas!  alas!  Lord  Tennyson  and  all  the 
family,  including  house-servants  and  house- 
keeper, had  gone,  three  days  before,  to  the 
estate  in  Surrey ! 

And  that  is  as  near  as  we  came  to  seeing 
the  Laureate. 

"  But  might  we  be  allowed  to  drive 
through  the  park,  without  alighting  ?  " 

The  gatekeeper  was  civil,  and  even  kindly. 
He  was  "very  sorry,"  but  his  orders  were 
positive.    He  was  not  to  open  the  gate  to 


68  BANBURY    CAKES. 

any  one  wlio  did  not  bring  to  liim  a  special 
permit  from  Lord  Tennyson  himself. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said,  of  course. 
Yet  our  thoughts  flew  over  the  sea  to  a  cer- 
tain historic  gate  in  Cambridge  that  ever 
swung  wide  at  the  touch  of  the  humblest 
hand.  We  thought,  too,  of  a  library  in 
Beacon  Street,  where  a  kindly  Autocrat 
gives  genial  greetings  to  young  and  old ; 
and  of  a  home  in  Concord  where  high  think- 
ing went  hand  in  hand  with  gentlest 
courtesy. 

Yet  still,  is  not  a  man's  house  his  castle? 
Even  if  he  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  a 
great  poet  whom  the  whole  world  honours, 
he  is  still  a  man  and  a  brother,  and  he  has 
a  right  to  shut  his  gates  upon  that  world  if 
he  chooses.  Let  us  be  thankful  for  the 
song,  even  if  the  lark  soars  so  far  and  high 
amid  the  blue  that  the  eye  cannot  follow  its 
flight. 

While  we  sat  waiting  at  the  lodge,  a  little 
boy  and  girl  came  trudging  down  through 


BANBURY    CAKES.  O9 

the  green  silence  of  the  park  to  the  stately- 
gate,  and  tried  to  crawl  through  its  bars. 
He  was  a  sturdy,  comical  little  figure  wear- 
ing a  black  silk  hat  half  as  tall  as  himself, 
with  a  bunch  of  cock-feathers  on  one  side. 
She  was  a  wee  sprite  in  a  white  sunbonnet. 
The  gate  was  quite  too  much  for  him  and 
his  hat.  So  he  gallantly  pushed  his  little 
sister  through  the  bars,  then  gave  her  the 
hat  to  hold,  and  scrambled  through  himself, 
never  so  much  as  stopping  to  brush  the 
sacred  dust  from  his  audacious  little  knees 
ere  they  dashed  down  the  road  like  two 
small  whirlwinds. 

Saint  Katharine  gave  a  long  sigh  as  we 
turned  back  to  Freshwater  Bay. 

"  Just  to  think,"  she  cried,  "that  those 
two  babies  have  been  playing  in  that  park 
all  this  blessed  afternoon,-  no  doubt,  and 
that  you  and  I  could  not  so  much  as  drive 
through  it!  I  wonder  if  they  appreciate 
their  opportunities  !  " 


I 


III. 

A  DAY  OF  CONTRASTS. 

T  has  been  somewhere  said  that  a  tour  in 
a  foreign  land  is  like  reading  an  interest- 
ing book  by  glimpses  and  chapter  headings 
—  a  word  here  and  there,  and  perhaps  a 
vivid  picture,  now  and  then,  by  way  of 
illustration. 

This  may  be.  But  England  is  not  a  for- 
eign land.  It  is  home,  with  just  enough  of 
a  foreign  element  to  add  piquancy  and 
flavour  to  the  feast  it  offers.  To  one  who 
was  brought  up  on  "Walter  Scott,  nursed  on 
English  History,  and  turned  loose  in  child- 
hood to  roam  at  will  through  the  wide,  en- 
chanted fields  of  English  literature,  all  is 
indescribably  dear  and  familiar.  To  such 
a  one,  I  doubt  if  there  can  be  any  experi- 
ence on  earth  more  utterly  satisfactory  than 
70 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  Jl 

a  first  visit  to  England  —  Shakespeare's 
"precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea," — un- 
less, indeed,  a  second  and  a  third  prove  to 
be  still  more  delightful.  One  is  like  a  child 
lulled  to  rest  upon  its  mother's  bosom, 
listening  in  a  half-dream  as  she  repeats  to 
him  the  dear  old  stories  and  romances  that 
have  already  become  part  of  its  being,  —  but 
whose  familiarity  only  adds  to  their  charm. 
After  a  prolonged  stay  on  the  continent, 
the  homeiness  of  England  is  perhaps  what 
makes  the  strongest  impression  on  the  re- 
turning wanderer.  To  land  at  Dover,  and 
take  the  late  afternoon  train  through  Kent 
and  Surrey,  when  the  lovely,  exquisite  green 
of  the  hills  and  valleys  is  all  shot  through 
with  the  gold  of  a  glowing  sunset,  and, 
later  on,  the  young  moon  gleams  softly 
through  a  veil  of  silver  mist,  is  an  experi- 
ence not  soon  to  be  forgotten.  As  for  us, 
we  were  glad  to  see  even  the  advertisements 
of  Coleman's  mustard,  Pear's  soap,  and 
Stephen's  ink. 


72  A    DAY   OF    CONTRASTS. 

The  thirteenth  of  July,  1891,  proved  to 
be  a  day  of  sharp  contrasts ;  for  though  geo- 
graphically near  each  other,  no  two  places 
can  be  farther  apart  in  spirit  than  Stoke 
Pogis,  where  Thomas  Gray  wrote  the  fa- 
mous "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard," 
and  Windsor  Castle,  the  ancestral  home  of 
English  sovereigns  ever  since  William  of 
Normandy  laid  its  strong  foundations. 

Early  in  the  morning,  which  means  about 
ten  o'clock  in  London  —  one  being  looked 
at  askance  who  orders  breakfast  before 
nine  —  we  drove  to  Paddington  Station, 
en  route  for  Slough,  a  busy  little  town 
which  we  reached  in  half  an  hour.  But 
before  we  take  the  train,  let  a  word  be 
said  about  the  peculiar  beauty  of  London 
on  just  such  a  morning.  The  streets  above 
Trafalgar  Square  were  as  j^et  comparatively 
quiet,  and  the  roar  of  traffic  had  scarcely 
begun.  One  could  not  see  far  ahead  ;  but 
as  we  drove  on  and  on,  the  grand  panorama 
slowly  unfolded  before  us,  the  great  city 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  'JT, 

with  its  countless  towers  and  pinnacles 
and  mighty  domes  emerging  from  clouds 
of  soft  gray  mist.  Paris  needs  sunshine, 
sparkle,  glitter,  iridescent  colour,  to  bring 
out  its  charm.  But  London — "the  heart 
of  the  world,"  — wears  her  gray  robes  with 
such  royal  grace  and  dignity  that  one  asks 
for  no  more.  This,  however,  is  only  a  di- 
gression for  which  there  is  no  need  to  apol- 
ogize. To  digress,  to  turn  aside  from  the 
straight  road  marked  out  by  guide-books 
and  chronicles,  and  find  out  little  bypaths 
of  one's  own,  is  one  of  the  greatest  delights 
of  travel.  In  telling  the  story  of  charmed 
days  in  dreamland,  may  not  one  take  the 
same  liberty  ? 

At  Slough  we  took  a  carriage  for  the  two- 
mile  drive  to  Stoke  Pogis.  For  the  first  half- 
mile  the  way  was  tame  and  uninteresting. 
Then  we  turned  into  a  long,  straight  avenue 
bordered  by  beautiful  fir-trees,  tall  and 
stately,  with  low,  wide-spreading  branches 
that  swept  the  ground.     Not  far  from  the 


74  A    DAY    OF    CONTllASTS. 

church  was  a  small  stone  lodge  literally 
buried  in  flowers.  Children  were  playing 
at  the  door,  and  a  sweet-faced  woman  with 
a  baby  in  her  arms  seemed  the  very  per- 
sonification of  happy  motherhood.  The 
gate  was  unlocked,  she  said,  and  we  could 
go  in  without  further  ceremony. 

We  found  ourselves  in  a  small  enclosure 
or  park,  across  which,  at  no  very  great  dis- 
tance, was  the  low  stone  wall  dividing  it 
from  the  churchyard  proper.  This  we 
entered  through  an  old  lych-gate,  a  quaint, 
arched  structure  with  seats,  or  benches,  on 
either  side.  The  lychrgate  is  seldom  found 
now.  It  belongs  to  the  past.  On  these 
narrow  benches,  long  ago,  the  coffin  rested, 
while  the  bearers  awaited  the  coming  of 
the  priest. 

Having  passed  through  it  we  were  in  a 
broad,  perfectly  straight  path,  on  each  side 
of  which  grew  tall  standard,  or  tree,  roses, 
red,  white,  pink,  and  yellow  in  regular 
order,  reaching  to  the  door  of  the  church. 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  75 

These  rose-trees,  all  exactly  of  a  height, 
with  their  round  tops  trimmed  into  exact 
symmetry,  had  lost  all  their  natural  wild- 
ing grace,  and  seemed  to  me  the  only  blem- 
ish in  a  spot  of  surpassing  loveliness.  Their 
artificial  splendour,  for  they  were  in  full 
bloom,  seemed  out  of  keeping  with  the 
quiet,  sylvan  beauty  of  the  scene. 

On  the  extreme  left,  the  yard  was  shel- 
tered by  a  thick  wall  of  trees  that  seemed 
to  touch  the  sky.  In  the  middle  of  what 
might  be  called  a  wide-spreading  lawn,  also 
at  the  left,  rose  a  singular  group  of  trees, 
their  heads  leaning  together  as  if  they 
might  be  gossiping  about  their  rustic 
neighbors  ;  and  on  the  extreme  right,  close 
in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  an  immense  horse- 
chestnut  stretched  its  branches  far  and 
wide. 

Beyond  this  lies  the  churchyard  proper, 
where  ' '  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet 
sleep,"  as  peacefully  now  as  when  more 
than  a  century  and  a  half  ago  Thomas  Gray 


76  A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS. 

sat  beneath  the  shade  of  "yonder  ivy- 
mantled  tower"  and  heard  "the  curfew 
toll  the  knell  of  .parting  day."  It  is  small 
for  this  over-peopled  island,  and  not  half- 
filled  even  yet.  The  air  of  Stoke  Pogis 
must  promote  longevity. 

The  church  itself  is  a  marvel  of  loveli- 
ness, with  its  gi'ay,  ivy-clad  w^alls,  its 
many  gables,  its  tall,  graceful  spire,  and 
its  general  air  of  peaceful,  honoured  old 
age.  Gray  lies  close  to  the  western  wall 
of  the  church,  in  the  same  tomb  with  the 
mother  who  was  his  idol,  and  in  whose 
memory  he  wrote  this  touching  inscrip- 
tion :  — 

"  Here  sleep  the  remains  of 
Dorothy  Gray, 
Widow,  the  careful,  teuder  mother  of   many 
children,  one  of  whom  alone  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  survive  her. 

She  died  March  11,  1753, 
Age  67." 

I  was  copying  this  inscription,  using  the 
fiat  top   of    the  tomb   for  a  table,    when 


A    DAY   OF    CONTRASTS.  'J^ 

the  old  sexton  came  pottering  along  with 
a  basket  on  his  arm,  picking  the  withered 
roses,  and  trying  to  appear  sublimely  un- 
conscious of  our  presence.  We  asked  if 
he  would  let  us  into  the  church.  Well, 
the  vicar  had  the  key  ;  the  vicarage  was 
quite  a  step  away ;  and  he  himself  was 
an  old  man ;  —  but  if  the  leddies  didn't 
mind  going  up  into  the  belfry  by  the 
outside  stairs,  and  down  into  the  church 
that-a-way,  they  could  have  the  privilege. 
Round  the  southwest  corner  we  sped  for 
a  look  at  those  stairs.  They  were  not 
long,  but  they  were  very  steep,  and  very 
narrow.  However,  there  was  a  strong  iron 
rail  to  cling  to ;  and  the  outside  of  the 
church  was  so  exceedingly  quaint  and 
picturesque  that  we  could  not  afford  to 
let  trifles  like  that  prevent  us  from  seeing 
what  the  inside  might  be.  So  up  we 
went,  into  the  very  queerest  of  dusty  old 
places,  hung  with  withered  wreaths,  crosses, 
harps,  and  all  manner  of  funereal  emblems. 


78  A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS. 

They  crumbled  at  the  slightest  touch,  and 
were  ghastly  to  the  last  degree  as  they 
hung  there  in  the  dim,  uncertain  light. 
Then  we  went  down  into  the  seven  hun- 
dred year  old  church,  to  which  we  had 
come  solely  for  Gray's  sake,  and  found, 
as  usual,  that  it  was  a  palimpsest.  Always 
one  inscription  on  the  parchment  overlies 
another.  The  family  of  William  Penn  — 
our  William  Penn  —  were  once  the  great 
folk  of  Stoke  Pogis,  and  the  nave  of  this 
quaintest  and  queerest  of  old  churches  is 
still  hung  with  their  escutcheons  and 
armorial  bearings.  Evidently  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  Penns  did  not  all  tend  towards 
Quakerism,  if  Quakerism  means  plain- 
living  and  self-abasement.  They  did  not 
enter  the  church  by  the  common  door,  — 
but  had  their  own  private  entrance  lead- 
ing through  a  large  vestibule  directly  to 
their  pew — a  good-sized,  carpeted  room, 
with,  I  should  say,  at  least  twenty  chairs 
in  it.    There  they  sat  in  state,  those  ancient 


A    DAY   OF    CONTRASTS.  79 

dames  and  gentlemen,  and  said  their 
prayers  quite  apart  from  any  unpleasant 
contact  with  their  humbler  neighbours.  On 
the  wall  is  an  inscription  in  memory  of  a 
"  Son  of  Wm.  Penn,  the  founder  of  Penn- 
sylvania." 

In  one  corner  a  square  pew  is  pointed 
out,  where  Gray  used  to  sit  by  his  mother's 
side,  thinking  a  boy's  thoughts. 

We  picked  some  wild  morning  glories 
from  the  church  wall,  as  mementos,  to 
the  dismay  of  our  old  sexton.  "  Why, 
they  are  only  wild  things,  —  weeds,"  he 
said,  glancing  scornfully  at  the  pink  and 
white  trumpets.  "  I'll  give  you  some 
roses."  We  took  the  roses,  —  but  we  kept 
the  morning  glories  that  had  ' '  blushed 
unseen,"  save  for  us,  in  Stoke  Pogis 
churchyard.  Then  with  many  a  long, 
lingering  look  behind  us,  we  passed  through 
a  wooden  turnstile  and  crossed  a  meadow- 
like park  all  starred  with  the  little  yellow 
trefoil  or  bird's-foot,  to  the   Gray   monu- 


8o  A    DAY   OF    CONTRASTS. 

ment,  of  which  the  less  is  said  the  better. 
There  our  carriage  waited,  and  we  soon 
took  the  train  for  Windsor,  only  about 
six  minutes'  ride. 

■~^  It  is  a  real  relief,  sometimes,  to  feel  that 
having  done  a  thing  once  you  need  not  do 
it  again. I  We  were  glad  not  to  be  tempted 
that  morning ;  to  know  in  advance  that,  the 
Queen  being  at  Windsor,  the  castle  was  not 
open  to  the  public.  The  outside  of  Wind- 
sor Castle  is  a  delight,  something  to  re- 
member, and  dream  of,  and  enjoy  to  the 
uttermost.  The  inside  of  the  majestic  pile 
is  —  to  the  tourist  —  a  delusion  and  a  snare. 
Perhaps  this  conviction  of  ours  is  due  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  one  of  the  only  three 
places  in  Britain  through  which  we  were 
hurried  at  the  sword's  point,  as  it  were, 
without  time  to  think,  to  ponder,  to  recall 
its  past.  There  is  no  pleasure  in  treading 
haunted  ground,  unless  you  can  call  up  the 
ghosts.  As  a  rule,  wherever  we  two  went, 
we  had    that    pleasure.      It  was  only   at 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  8l 

Windsor,  at  Warwick,  and  at  York,  that 
fate  was  against  us,  and  we  were  compelled 
to  follow  in  the  wake  of  a  gaping,  gabblhig 
crowd,  and  to  see  all  things  as  with  eyes 
that  saw  not.  This  time  we  were  well  con- 
tent to  see  only  the  majestic  towers,  the 
gray,  embattled  walls,  the  green  slopes  and 
terraced  gardens,  with  the  winding  Thames 
at  our  feet,  and  fair  Eton  in  the  distance. 
These  we  did  want  to  see  again,  and  St. 
George's  chapel,  which  is  always  open.  On 
the  way  to  Windsor,  a  gentleman  in  our 
compartment  said,  "  Ladies,  perhaps  you 
will  like  to  know  that  the  Duke  of  Con- 
naught  is  in  the  carriage  just  behind  us." 
Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  the  German 
Emperor  and  Empress  were  coming  in  by 
the  afternoon  train. 

Here  was  our  chance  !  "  All  things  come 
round  to  him  who  waits,"  I  whispered  to 
Saint  Katharine.  For  all  London  had  gone 
daft  over  the  visit  of  their  German  Majes- 
ties.    Such  pushing  and  scrambling,  such 

G 


82  A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS. 

rashing  and  crowding,  such  eager  attempts 
at  seeing  and  being  seen  as  had  been  going 
on  around  us  for  many  days,  was  quite 
beyond  our  democratic  comprehension,  as 
it  was  outside  of  our  whole  experience. 
"  Have  you  had  a  glimpse  of  their  Maj- 
esties?" "Oh,  you  must  see  the  Em- 
peror!" *' We  are  hurrying  down  to  the 
Strand  to  see  the  royal  procession!"  etc., 
etc.,  had  been  dinned  in  our  ears  until 
we  were  tired. 

But  there  were  two  cardinal  points  in 
our  traveller's  creed,  one  being  "climb  no 
high  towers"  —  having  grown  wiser  since 
we  climbed  Prince  Edward's  Tower  at 
Caernarvon,  three  years  before,  —  and  the 
other,  "keep  out  of  crowds;"  conse- 
quently, and  in  obedience  to  this  latter 
clause,  we  had  made  no  attempt  to  see 
the  German  lions.  And  now,  here  we 
were,  by  merest  chance,  in  quiet  "Windsor, 
where  there  would  be  no  crowd  and  no 
confusion ;   and  Emperor  William  and  his 


A   DAY   OF    CONTRASTS.  83 

wife  were  coming  down  to  say  good-bye 
to  dear  grandmamma  Victoria ! 

When  tlie  train  stopped,  out  of  the 
carriage  behind  us  alighted  the  Duke  of 
Connaught,  shrouded  in  a  long,  dark 
travelling  cloak.  A  blue  cap  with  a  broad 
gold  band  was  all  that  distinguished  him 
from  his  suite.  He  quickly  slipped  out 
of  sight,  and  we  stepped  aside  to  consider 
the  situation.  A  very  busy  and  impor- 
tant personage  was  the  station-master  that 
day,  —  with  a  small  army  of  carpenters 
and  florists  under  him ;  but  we  hunted 
him  up  and  asked  if  there  was  any 
chance  for  us  to  see  the  pageant  of  the 
afternoon.  He  shook  his  head.  "  You 
will  have  to  obtain  permission  of  his 
honour  the  Mayor,"  he  said  softly. 

But  either  our  red  Baedekers,  or  the 
subtile  something  that  always  betrays  an 
American,  stood  us  in  good  stead  ;  for  when 
without  a  murmur  we  turned  meekly  away, 
saying  that  was  by  far  too  much  trouble, 


54  A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS. 

he  bade  us  wait  a  minute,  and  speedily  dis- 
appeared. Needless  to  say,  we  waited. 
Presently  he  came  back  with  two  pink 
tickets,  admitting  the  bearers  to  the  plat- 
form to  witness  the  arrival  and  departure 
of  their  German  Majesties.  When  we 
offered  him  a  fee  he  declined  it,  saying  if 
he  took  it,  it  would  cost  him  his  place. 

We  went  to  the  White  Hart  for  our 
luncheon  and  then  strolled  up  the  hill  to  the 
castle,  where  we  lingered  until  nearly  four 
o'clock.  Then  we  returned  to  the  station, 
where  the  decorators  had  done  their  work 
bravely.  From  every  arch,  cornice,  and 
column  drooped  the  English,  German,  and 
Prussian  colours  in  proud  array.  The  royal 
entrance  was  carpeted,  and  banked  on  either 
side  and  across  the  platform  with  magnificent 
palms  and  flowering  plants.  Only  about 
two  hundred  people  were  admitted  behind 
the  barriers,  and  we  took  our  place  among 
them,  laughing  and  pluming  ourselves  on  our 
good  luck.    For,  alas!  poor  human  nature 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  85 

does  find  a  certain  unholy  satisfaction  in 
doing  almost  without  effort  what  its 
brothers  have  striven  hard  to  accomplish. 
This  may  be  sad,  but  it  is  undeniably  true. 
Pretty  soon  a  guard  of  honour  from  the 
Second  Battalion  of  the  Scots  Guards,  re- 
splendent in  scarlet  coats  and  enormous 
black  fur  caps,  drew  up  in  line  opposite  the 
station  and  were  drilled  and  reviewed  by 
three  or  four  grandly  appointed  officers,  all 
stars  and  crosses,  and  beribboned  and  bejew- 
elled to  the  last  degree.  Next,  mounted  on 
coal-black  horses  with  white  fur  saddle  cloths 
and  magnificent  housings,  came  an  escort  of 
the  Second  Life  Guards,  in  brass  breast- 
plates that  glittered  like  burnished  gold  in 
the  light  of  the  afternoon  sun,  and  wearing 
silver-gilt  helmets  with  long  white  plumes. 
There  was  much  prancing  and  caracoling 
and  galloping  up  and  down,  until  at  length 
a  mounted  herald  appeared,  clad  in  cloth 
of  gold  from  tip  to  toe.  His  steed  wheeled 
and  curveted,  and  seemed  likely  to  throw 


86  A    DAY   OF    COXTRASTS. 

him  ;  but  he  kept  his  seat  bravely  as  he  held 
aloft  the  royal  ensign,  and  carried  a  shining 
bugle  on  which  he  presently  blew  a  sonorous 
blast  as  the  carriages  from  Windsor  came 
winding  down  the  hill. 

First  came  several  empty  ones,  for  the 
Emperor  and  his  suite  ;  then  as  many 
more  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  waiting 
on  the  Queen ;  and  then  one  in  which  sat 
the  Duke  of  Connaught,  wearing  the  uni- 
form of  the  Scots  Guards,  and  the  Prince 
and  Princess  Henry  of  Battenberg  —  the 
latter  being  Victoria's  youngest  daughter, 
Beatrice. 

They  had  but  a  short  time  to  wait.  The 
royal  special  train  came  rushing  in.  Every 
man's  hat  was  off  in  a  trice,  but  there  was 
no  noise,  no  shouting.  The  Emperor  and 
Empress  with  their  suites  alighted,  crossed 
the  platform  where  an  aisle  was  kept  open 
for  them,  bowed  to  right  and  left  repeatedly, 
got  into  the  carriage  in  waiting,  and  were 
driven  off.     It  is  allowable,  no  doubt,  for 


A    DAY    OF    CONTRASTS.  8/ 

good  Americans  to  have  a  little  touch  of 
curiosity  as  to  the  royalty  their  fathers  so 
speedily  cast  off,  even  though,  theoret- 
ically, they  are  supposed  to  regard  crowns 
and  sceptres  as  baubles  of  small  account. 
As  they  passed  me,  so  close  that  I  could  have 
touched  them,  the  Emperor  and  Empress 
were  talking  and  laughing  like  any  common 
Darby  and  Joan,  while  they  obviously  took 
in  all  about  them  with  quick,  observant 
eyes.  He  wore  the  splendid  uniform  of  one 
of  his  regiments  ;  she,  a  pretty  costume  of 
heliotrope  cloth,  with  a  little  bonnet  to 
match.  She  is  an  interesting  woman, 
attractive,  without  being  absolutely  beauti- 
ful. He  has  a  fine,  strong,  thoughtful 
face, —  a  face  that  attracts  and  impresses 
one;  and  with  his  powerful  figure  and 
martial  bearing,  he  looked  that  day  the 
embodiment  of  manly  health  and  vigor. 

We  took  the  next  train  for  London,  not 
caring  to  wait  for  the  return  pageant.  But 
no  doubt  the  elite  of  Windsor  kept  their 


88  A    DAY   OF    CONTRASTS. 

places  on  that  platform  until  the  last  vestige 
of  the  show  was  over. 

"Saint  Katharine,"  I  said,  as  we  were 
going  to  bed  that  night,  "  it  was  a  far  cry 
from  the  this-worldliness  of  Windsor,  to 
the  other-worldliness  of  Stoke  Pogis." 


IV. 

IN  THE   FOREST   OF   ARDEX. 

" The  beings  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay; 
Essentially  immortal  they  create 
And  multiply  in  us  a  brighter  ray 
And  more  beloved  existence." 

ri'^HUS  spake  the  creator  of  Childe  Har- 
old.  Shall  I  venture  to  confess  that 
when  we  awoke  in  Rugby  one  fine  morn- 
ing, with  the  long,  bright  summer  day 
before  us  to  be  spent  in  wandering  whither- 
soever our  fancies  led,  we  did  not  think  of 
the  town  as  an  important  railway  junction, 
nor  as  the  '  Rocheberrie '  of  Domesday 
Book,  nor  as  the  '  Rokebie  '  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth ?  I  fear  we  scarcely  thought  even  of 
Dr.  Thomas  Arnold,  save  as  the  beloved 
guide  and  friend  of  Tom  Brown,  and  East, 
and  Arthur,  and  "  Old  Brooke."     We  saw 


90  IN    TIIK    FOREST    OF    AHDEX. 

him  with  their  eyes  and  loved  him  with 
their  love. 

So  it  was  with  a  great  flood  of  tenderness 
surging  over  us  that,  after  a  loitering  break- 
fast, we  made  our  way  up  High  Street,  at 
the  head  of  which  we  found  the  famous 
school  standing  in  its  own  gi-een  close,  the 
embodiment  of  serene  repose.  How  dear 
and  familiar  it  all  looked  —  the  emerald 
turf,  the  drooping  elms,  the  school-gates 
■with  the  oriel  windows  above,  the  long  line 
of  gray  buildings  with  the  chapel  at  one 
end  and  the  schoolhouse  at  the  other  !  No 
flag  was  flying  from  the  great  round  tower, 
for  it  was  in  the  long  vacation,  and  the 
whole  place  was  as  silent  as  "some  ban- 
quet hall  deserted." 

As  we  stood  looking  about  us,  a  young 
man  approached  touching  his  cap. 

Yes.  The  ladies  could  go  over  the  place. 
The  houses  were  being  cleaned  and  put  to 
rights  against  term  time.  But  perhaps  they 
wouldn't  mind  that. 


IX    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  9I 

Indeed  we  would  not,  though  it  would 
have  been  pleasant  to  have  heard  the  rmg 
of  boyish  voices,  and  to  have  seen  the 
quadrangle  alive  with  eager-eyed  laddies. 

Into  the  Schoolhouse  Hall  with  its  great 
fireplaces  and  the  two  long  tables  running 
from  end  to  end,  with  a  third  table  in  the 
corner  apparently  for  carving  and  serving  ; 
into  the  little  studies  opening  from  shadowy 
passages — rooms  hardly  larger  than  closets, 
yet  comfortable  enough  according  to  a  boy's 
idea  of  comfort,  and  filled  with  all  manner 
of  boyish  appliances ;  into  the  rooms  of 
the  different  ranks  and  grades  of  scholastic 
learning — and  at  last  into  the  "  Sixth  Form 
Eoom"  — the  glory  of  Rugby.  Here  were 
the  old  desks  used  by  many  a  lad  who  after- 
ward graved  his  name  upon  the  heart  of  the 
world  far  more  deeply  than  he  had  carved 
it  here  on  bench  and  desk-cover.  In  one 
room  —  perhaps  it  was  this  of  the  sixth 
form  —  emblazoned  on  the  walls  were  the 
names  of  those  who  had  carried  off  prizes, 


92  IX    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX. 

or  honours,  going  back,  if  my  memory- 
serves  me,  to  1834.  Here  in  this  roll  of 
honour  were  the  names  of  Arthur  Stanley, 
and  Matthew  Arnold,  and  Arthur  Hugh 
Clough,  and  many  others  that  I  do  not  now 
recall,  but  that  were  like  familiar  music. 

"Is  the  Captain  of  the  Eleven  as  great 
a  man  as  ever?"  I  asked  of  the  janitor 
as  we  stood  under  a  great  tree  on  the  edge 
of  the  beautiful  green  cricket  field. 

"Ah,  yes,  indeed  he  is,"  he  said.  "  The 
Captain  is  almost  a  bigger  man  than  the 
Head  Master  himself." 

"And  does  Sally  Harrowell  still  roast 
potatoes  for  the  boys?"  Saint  Katharine 
inquired  demurely,  as  she  stooped  to  pick 
up  an  acorn  by  way  of  a  souvenir.  "And 
do  they  buy  as  many  cakes  and  tarts  as 
they  did  in  the  daj^s  of  Tom  Brown?" 

The  young  janitor — he  seemed  hardly 
more  than  a  boy  himself  —  looked  bewil- 
dered. 

"*Tom  Brown  ?  '  — I  don't  remember  the 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.  93 

name,  my  lady.  Was  the  young  gentle- 
man a  friend  of  your  own  ?  He  must  have 
been  here  before  my  time  ;  and  I  don't 
think  I  know  the  woman  you  speak  of. 
But  there's  a  shop  just  round  the  corner 
where  a- many  sixpences  go." 

We  had  left  the  chapel  to  the  last.  Our 
guide  led  us  to  the  door,  but  did  not  go  in. 
There  have  been  many  changes  and  im- 
provements since  Dr.  Arnold's  day.  The 
lovely  chapel,  with  its  beautiful  east  win- 
dow, has  been  enlarged,  but  the  old  part  is 
still  there  ;  and  it  took  but  a  slight  effort 
of  the  imagination  to  see  just  what  Tom 
Brown  saw  on  that  last  visit  of  his  to 
that  hallowed  spot  —  when  he  took  the 
keys  from  the  old  verger  and  in  the  fast 
gathering  twilight  sought  the  burial  place  of 
his  friend  and  master.  Dr.  Arnold  lies  just 
in  front  of  the  chancel  rails,  and  near  the 
pulpit  from  which  he  spoke  such  words  of 
inspiring  hope  and  cheer  to  the  young,  eager 
souls  that  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  God. 


94  IN    THE    FOREST    OF   ARDEN. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  cool  darkness  and 
silence  of  the  chapel  into  the  warmth  and 
brightness  of  the  summer  day,  glad  with 
bird-song  and  sweet  with  flower-scents,  we 
found  the  janitor  waiting  in  the  porch. 
He  touched  his  cap. 

"Yonder  are  Dr.  Arnold's  stairs,"  he 
said  ;  "  I  thought  you  might  like  to  know  " 
—  and  I  looked  with  both  my  eyes,  think- 
ing of  sundry  boys  in  America  who  would 
remember  just  how  Tom  and  East  scurried 
up  those  stairs,  forlorn,  bedraggled,  and  wet, 
the  night  after  their  first  Big-side  Hare- 
and-Hounds. 

"And  over  there  in  the  playground  is 
a  tree  Dr.  Arnold  planted,"  he  went  on. 
"  Not  in  that  place,  though.  You  wouldn't 
think  that  tree  was  moved  not  so  very  long 
ago,  would  you  now  ?  " 

It  was  a  great  tower  of  a  tree,  with  wide- 
spreading  branches,  that  cast  deep  shadows 
on  the  turf. 

"When  this  place  was  repaired  the  tree 


IX    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  95 

was  in  the  way,"  lie  continued.  "No  one 
would  hear  to  its  being  cut  down.  So  they 
moved  it,  big  as  it  is,  and  it  never  seemed 
to  know  it.  But  it  cost  a  power  o'  money. 
Some  folk  put  it  as  high  as  a  thousand 
pound,"  —  and,  as  he  escorted  us  to  the 
gate,  his  pride  in  the  unlimited  resources 
of  the  Rugby  exchequer  was  something 
beautiful  to  see. 

We  were  only  eleven  miles  from  Coventry. 
Was  there  anything  there  we  wanted  to  see? 
Nothing  but  the  ' '  three  tall  spires  ' '  and 
the  streets — the  streets  through  which 
Godiva,  that  "  woman  of  a  thousand 
summers  back,"  rode  forth  clothed  on  with 
chastity,  to  release  her  people  from  the 
grim  earl's  tax.  Let  no  one  suppose  there 
is  nothing  else  worth  seeing,  however.  In 
any  one  of  these  haunted  old  towns  one 
might  linger  for  days  and  weeks,  and  not 
exhaust  the  romances  written  on  their 
stony  pages.  I  only  mean  that  our  personal 
interest  centred  in  its  one  great  legend. 


96  IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

One  charm  of  all  these  old  towns  lies  in 
the  fact  that  no  matter  how  many  cross- 
roads and  byways  may  spring  up,  the 
direction  of  the  principal  streets  remains 
the  same,  year  after  year,  century  after 
century.  We  could  see  the  whole  thing  — 
the  hot  summer  noon,  the  silent  and  de- 
serted streets,  the  white  palfrey  with  its 
trappings  of  purple  and  gold,  and  the  fair 
lady  clothed  only  in  the  rippled  ringlets  of 
her  hair.  We  could  hear  the  quick  beat 
of  the  palfrey's  hoofs,  the  stir  and  rustle  as 
he  shot  swiftly  by,  and  the  low  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  and  blessing  from  the  lips  of 
other  women  from  whom  this  one  brave 
woman  was  lifting  a  weary  load.  ' '  Peeping 
Tom"  peered  at  us  as  we  passed,  for  alas! 
he  is  peeping  yet. 

We  had  come  to  Coventry  by  rail.  There 
could  be  but  one  answer  to  the  question 
how  we  should  leave  it.  Go  in  prosaic, 
matter  of  fact  cars  from  Coventry  to  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon?    The  idea  was  preposterous. 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  97 

Ever  since  we  entered  TVarwicksliire  the 
sense  of  awe  and  mystery,  of  an  invisible 
presence,  an  intangible,  quickening  spirit 
dominating  every  thought  and  impulse,  had 
been  growing  and  deepening.  Lichfield  and 
Rugby  and  Coventry  were  but  the  doorways 
to  the  enchanted  land  we  were  about  to  enter, 
"We  had  lingered  and  loitered,  interesting 
ourselves  in  minor  things,  even  as  the  swift 
swimmer,  howsoever  eager  for  the  exhilara- 
tion of  the  plunge,  the  dash,  the  uproar  of 
the  spray,  may  yet  linger  for  a  moment, 
charmed  by  the  beauty  of  the  glittering 
sand  and  the  curved  sea-shells  on  the  shore. 
How  felt  the  knights  whose  quest  was  for 
the  Holy  Grail?  Like  them  we  were  fain 
to  put  our  shoes  from  off  ouwfeet,  and  veil 
our  faces  in  the  presence  of  the  mystery. 

We  would  drive  through  AVarwickshire  — 
the  forest  of  Arden  —  the  heart  of  England. 

"  You  remember  the  oft-told  story.  Saint 
Katharine?"  I  said.  "It  is  to  this  effect, 
though  I  don't  quite  remember  the  details. 


98  IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

But  two  men  made  a  wager  as  to  the  most 
beautiful  drive  in  all  England,  each  assert- 
ing that  the  one  he  would  name  was  incom- 
parable. Each  was  to  write  his  choice  and 
the  umpire  was  to  decide  between  them. 
And  lo!  one  wrote  'From  Coventry  to 
Stratford  '  —  and  the  other  '  From  Stratford 
to  Coventry.'  Whatever  else  we  miss,  we 
can't  afford  to  miss  that  drive." 

What  can  be  said  about  it?  There  is  so 
much  that  cannot  be  put  into  words  —  the 
atmosphere,  the  glamour,  the  glory  of  it 
all.  To  begin  with,  it  was  a  perfect  day  — 
as  sweet  and  cool  and  bright  as  George 
Herbert's  Sunday  ;  and  our  hearts  were  in 
tune  with  the  day.  Fatigue  dropped  away 
from  us  ;  care  was  a  forgotten  word  ;  even 
duty  was  a  dream,  hidden  in  some  far-away 
nook  of  our  New  England  consciences.  To 
live  was  to  be  happy,  to  enjoy  to  the  full 
the  delight  of  mere  existence.  There  were 
no  marvels  in  the  way  of  scenery  ;  there 
was  nothing  to  startle  ;  just,  for  the  first 


IN    THE    FOREST    OP'    ARDEX.  99 

five  miles,  an  almost  straight  road,  bordered 
on  either  side  by  two  rows  of  stately  syca- 
mores. But  the  sky  was  a  pale  blue,  flecked 
with  soft  white  clouds,  the  turf  that  was 
like  emerald  velvet  even  to  the  verge  of  the 
road-bed  was  starred  with  wild-flowers,  the 
blue  of  the  forget-me-not  and  speedwell, 
the  pink  of  the  tiny  bird's  eye,  the  yellow  of 
buttercups,  and  a  little  unknown  flower  with 
a  heart  of  gold.  There  were  scarlet  poppies 
in  the  fields.  The  hedgerows  were  a  tangle 
of  bloom  and  verdure,  interlaced  with  ivy, 
and  gemmed  with  the  white  trumpets  of  the 
wild  morning-glory,  wide  open,  even  in  mid 
afternoon,  save  where  the  sun  was  strongest. 
Occasionally  we  caught  a  distant  glimpse 
of  some  fair  mansion  with  a  flag  floating 
from  its  turret,  and  we  passed  cottages 
low,  brown,  and  moss-gTown,  whose  latticed 
casements  were  shining  in  the  sun. 

And  at  length  there  rose  before  us,  like  a 
vision  from  another  world,  the  glorious 
ruins  of  Kenilworth  —  vast,  spectral  masses 


100         IX    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

of  mouldering  stone,  overgrown  with  ivy. 
God  pity  the  man  or  woman  who  can  stand 
beneath  those  crumbling  arches,  look  up- 
ward to  the  sky  from  the  unroofed  Banquet- 
ing Hall,  gaze  forth  from  the  ivy-curtained 
mullioned  windows,  or  up  at  the  mighty 
towers  around  which  rooks  fly,  and  ravens 
croak,  without  a  throbbing  heart  and  a 
thrill  that  is  at  once  a  keen  joy  and  a 
sharp  pain !  For  here  one  meets,  face  to 
face,  the  past  embodied,  incarnate,  and  yet 
not  so  far  removed  from  us  but  that  we  can 
see  and  feel  every  passion  that  ever  moved 
it.  They  who  builded  the  pyramids  belong 
to  an  age  so  remote  that  we  can  scarce  com- 
prehend it.  Even  their  mummies  do  not 
stir  in  us  any  profound  emotion.  They  are 
curiosities,  to  be  studied  and  marvelled  at 
in  museums  and  wonder-galleries,  not  men 
and  women  of  like  passions  with  ourselves. 
But  here  we  can  listen  for  the  trumpets  of 
brave  Simon  de  Montfort,  we  can  clasp  the 
gauntleted  hand  of  old  John  of  Gaunt,  we 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.  lOI 

can  look  into  tlie  foul  dungeon  of  Edward 
the  Second,  we  can  hear  the  death-cry  of 
Pierre  Gaveston,  who  was  slain  hard  by, 
we  can  follow  the  whole  long  procession 
of  those  who  lived  and  loved,  triumphed, 
suffered,  and  sinned,  beneath  the  lofty 
battlements  of  Kenilworth.  Elizabeth  is 
here  in  all  the  pride  of  her  imperious 
womanhood,  in  all  the  splendour  of  her  royal 
state.  Leicester  passes  in  his  pride  of  place, 
a  lordly  presence,  proud,  haughty,  magnifi- 
cent in  dress  and  bearing,  cruel  in  his  am- 
bition, murderous  in  intention  if  not  in 
deed.  Amy  Robsart  weeps  in  yonder 
tower,  and  glides  like  a  spirit  down  those 
winding  turret  stairs  that  in  the  shadowy 
pleasaunce  she  may  claim  the  pity  of  her 
queen.  It  is  not  what  is,  but  what  has  been, 
that  invests  these  ruins  with  such  opulent 
splendour  that  imagination  falters  and  the 
tongue  is  dumb.  No  magnificence  of  to-day 
can  compete  with  the  solemn  grandeur  of 
these   wide,   deserted  spaces,    these    vast, 


102         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ATfDEN. 

silent,  spectral  halls,  unroofed  and  open  to 
all  the  winds  of  heaven. 

We  drove  silently  on  to  Warwick.  There 
was  no  need  of  words. 

Did  I  say  Leicester  was  proud,  cruel, 
ambitious,  murderous?  The  next  day  I 
repented,  and  revoked  at  least  one-tenth 
of  the  anathemas  I  had  hurled  at  him.  No 
man  is  wholly  bad,  even  though  he  may  be 
false  at  once  to  his  wife  and  his  queen ; 
certainly  not  if  he  cared  enough  for  his 
poorer  brethren  to  found  an  institution 
like  Leicester's  Hospital. 

One  who  walks  up  the  High  Street  of 
Warwick  —  half  the  towns  in  England 
seem  to  have  a  High  Street,  some  of 
which  are  unaccountably  low  —  is  presently 
confronted  by  a  mass  of  stone  at  which  he 
looks  curiously.  Is  it  the  work  of  nature 
or  of  man?  One  sees,  after  a  little,  that 
it  is  the  work  of  both.  Through  the  nat- 
ural rock,  which  has  been  hewn  and  shapen 
into   something   like    proportion,    a   great 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  IO3 

vaulted  passage  has  been  cut ;  a  huge  gate- 
way, through  which  the  tide  of  human 
affairs  lias  ebbed  and  flowed  for  ages.  On 
the  top  of  the  mass  of  rock,  directly  over 
the  archway,  is  a  gray  church  with  a  square 
tower,  so  old,  so  weather-beaten,  that  it 
seems  to  be  an  outgrowth  of  the  rock  it- 
self. By  its  side,  and  connected  with  it 
at  an  equal  height,  is  a  group  of  build- 
ings equally  old,  equally  weather-beaten. 
This  is  Leicester — or  Leycester — Hospital, 
founded  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  Lord 
Dudley  —  the  Leicester  of  Queen  Ehzabetli. 
It  is  not  a  hospital  at  all,  in  the  modern 
sense  of  the  word,  but  a  home  for  twelve 
old  men  —  twelve  "Brethren."  These 
brothers  are  all  old  soldiers,  whose  income 
from  other  sources  does  not  exceed  five 
pounds  a  year. 

We  passed  through  the  archway  and  up 
a  gently  inclined  plane,  turned  and  went 
under  a  row  of  trees  and  found  ourselves 
on  a  level  with  the  church  and  its  belong- 


104         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX. 

ings.  Just  then  a  bell  tolled  softly.  The 
brethren  were  assembling  for  morning  ser- 
vice and  we  followed  them  reverently.  It 
is  very  plain,  that  tiny  chapel  on  the  rock. 
The  chancel  is  hardly  larger  than  a  good 
sized  pocket-handkerchief.  There  is  a  pic- 
ture—  I  forget  what,  for  it  had  little  to 
recommend  it  —  over  the  small  altar,  and 
in  the  eastern  window  there  is  an  old  bit  of 
stained  glass  supposed  to  represent  the  Earl 
of  Leicester.  But  the  place  was  scrupu- 
lously clean,  the  sun  streamed  in  glori- 
ously, throwing  haloes  round  the  bowed 
heads  of  the  twelve  old  men,  each  of  whom 
was  furnished  with  a  costly  prayer-book  of 
"fine  large  type,"  good  for  aged  eyes. 
There  was  no  music,  but  the  broken  old 
voices  made  the  responses  in  a  monotonous 
chant  that  was  strangely  impressive. 

When  we  came  out  one  of  the  brethren 
took  us  in  charge,  politely  telling  us  he  was 
glad  it  happened  to  be  "his  day" — from 
which  we  inferred  that  they  took  turns  in 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.         I05 

showing  the  place  to  strangers,  and  pocket- 
ing the  fee.  Very  picturesque  was  the 
bent  old  figure  that  nevertheless  stepped 
off  jauntily  in  its  cloak,  or  gown,  of  fine 
blue  cloth,  with  a  silver  badge  —  the  Bear 
and  Ragged  Staff  of  their  founder  —  on  the 
left  shoulder.  This  is  the  uniform,  so  to 
speak,  for  which  the  brethren  have  ex- 
changed the  red  coat  of  the  soldier.  The 
badges  are  the  very  identical  ones  that 
were  given  by  the  Earl  of  Leicester  to  the 
original  twelve,  with  the  exception  of  one 
that  was  stolen  and  replaced  in  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne.  Unlucky  is  he  to  whom 
that  one  happens  to  fall  !  —  for  very  proud 
are  they  of  these  ancient  heirlooms.  Our 
guide  assured  us  that  the  one  he  wore  was 
350  years  old,  which  could  hardly  have 
been  literally  true,  as  the  foundation  was 
established  in  1571. 

"Eighty  pound  a  year  we  get,  my 
lady,"  he  said  as  he  led  us  into  the 
quaintly    beautiful    quadrangle,    with    its 


I06         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

cloistered  walk  and  baliistraded  staircase, 
"Eighty  pound  —  which  is  not  a  bad 
thing,''  and  he  chuckled  softly.  "  And  we 
have  our  own  apartments,  and  a  bit  of 
ground  for  a  garden,  and  a  new  gown  like 
this "  — touching  it  proudly  —  "every  year. 
And  the  ale  is  very  good,  very  good,"  he 
added,  and  then  called  our  attention  to  the 
inscriptions  on  the  wall  opposite  —  "  Hon- 
our the  King,"  "Fear  God,"  "Be  kindly 
affectioned  one  to  another,"  and  many 
similar  texts,  all  in  Old  English  characters. 
And  among  all  the  carved  devices,  the 
rich  and  strange  architectural  ornaments, 
appearing  on  every  hand,  in  stone  work, 
and  carven  oak,  and  fantastic  timber  work, 
the  Bear  and  the  Ragged  Staff  were  con- 
tinually repeated.  Verily  the  Earl,  whether 
he  was  good  or  bad,  did  not  choose  to  be 
forgotten  by  his  beneficiaries. 

Opposite  the  entrance  arch  is  the  house  of 
the  Master,  forming,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
one  side  of  the  quadrangle.     A  kindly  man 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  I07 

he  must  be,  judging  from  the  look  of  homely 
comfort  that,  with  all  its  quaint  stateliness, 
pervades  the  entire  place. 

From  the  garden  we  went  to  the  kitchen 
—  a  spacious,  lofty  room  with  a  mantelpiece 
of  carved  oak  as  black  as  ebony.  So  high 
is  it  that  it  seems  lost  in  the  dark  spaces 
overhead.  The  great  fireplace  is  fenced 
in,  or  partitioned  off,  by  a  row  of  high- 
backed  settles,  massive,  and  dark  with  age, 
arranged  in  a  semicircle,  with  spaces  be- 
tween them  through  which  the  ruddy  fire 
glowed.  Behind  these,  on  wall  and  shelf, 
was  such  an  array  of  shining  copper  ves- 
sels of  all  shapes  and  sizes  as  it  was  good 
to  see.  Dinner  was  being  made  ready,  and 
the  air  was  full  of  the  aroma  of  good  cheer. 
The  brethren  bring  their  food  here  for 
cooking,  but  each  has  his  own  table  in 
his  own  small  parlour.  After  all  is  cleared 
away  the  hearth  is  swept  and  garnished, 
and  the  kitchen  becomes  a  social  hall,  where 
the  old  men  sit  with  their  pipes  and  ale,  a 


I08         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX. 

company  of  harmless  gossips.  No  humble 
hall  is  theirs.  If  they  do  but  lift  their 
eyes  they  behold  on  every  side  the  Bear 
and  Eagged  Staff,  escutcheons,  crests,  and 
all  manner  of  heraldic  emblazonry.  In  one 
corner  is  a  stately  elbow-chair  wherein  sat 
James  the  First  when  feasted  by  the  Earl 
of  Warwick.  Over  the  mantelpiece  are 
crossed  halberds  ancient  as  the  house  itself ; 
and  on  the  wall  is  a  square  of  needlework, 
a  bit  of  faded  silken  embroidery,  framed 
in  Kenilworth  oak.  You  have  to  look  twice 
before  you  see  that  it  represents  the  omni- 
present bear  and  staff.  Hardly  worth  notic- 
ing in  its  dim  decay,  you  think ;  but  you 
turn  back  and  look  at  it  again  and  again 
when  you  learn  that  it  was  wrought  by  the 
white  hand  of  Amy  Robsart, — perhaps  as 
a  love-token  for  her  recreant  lord. 

"We  tear  ourselves  reluctantly  away,  and 
go  on  to  the  castle,  which  is  not  far  off. 
Warwick  is  the  twin-sister  of  Kenilworth. 
Their  noble  foundations  were  laid  in  the 


IN   THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.         IO9 

same  year.  Yet  the  one  is  a  stupendous 
ruin,  while  the  other  is  a  nineteenth  cen- 
tury home.  Such  is  the  irony  of  fate.  But, 
somehow,  the  magnificent  living  castle, 
with  all  its  splendid  environment,  with  its 
huge,  battlemented  turrets,  its  great  round 
towers,  its  long  sequence  of  historic  rooms, 
its  stately  halls  and  corridors,  rich  with 
buhl  and  ormolu,  with  marqueterie  and 
bronzes,  with  pictures  and  sculpture,  and 
ancient  armour  once  worn  by  giants  of  an 
elder  day  — all  this  failed  to  move  us  as  did 
the  crumbling  arches  of  her  dead  sister. 
Yet  the  picture  memory  gained  that  day 
was  a  fair  one,  to  be  kept  forever.  He  who 
has  seen  Warwick,  whether  from  the  bridge, 
the  court,  or  the  gardens,  can  never  forget 
its  gray,  dream-like,  sombre  magnificence. 

Leicester,  with  many  another  of  his 
race,  lies  in  Beauchamp  Chapel,  in  the 
great  church  of  St.  Mary's,  with  folded 
hands  and  face  upturned  as  if  in  prayer. 
He  looks  as  saintly  as  any  martyred  priest. 


no         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    AIIDEN. 

By  his  side  is  a  quiet  dame  in  hood  and 
ruff,  his  last  wife  Cicely.  Let  us  forgive 
him  his  sins  for  the  sake  of  the  one  good 
deed  that  lives  after  him — a  clear  star 
shining  through  the  mist  of  ages. 

The  next  day  we  drove  on  to  Stratford. 
It  was  like  a  drive  in  dreamland.  A  veil  of 
silver  mist  encompassed  us,  softening  every 
outline,  and  throwing  over  all  it  touched  a 
bewildering  grace  and  beauty.  The  sun 
broke  forth  occasionally,  but  only  to  ' '  lower 
its  golden  buckets  down  into  the  vapoury 
amethyst."  And  soon  it  began  to  pour.  We 
passed  Charlecote,  where  we  had  intended 
to  stoiD,  in  a  sharp  shower,  and  peered  out 
from  beneath  our  dripping  umbrellas  at  its 
octagon  towers,  its  gables  and  turrets  and 
enormous  chimney-stacks,  half  hiddeii  by 
the  overmantling  ivy.  We  saw  no  deer  in 
the  storied  park ;  but  they  may  have  been 
there  nevertheless,  for,  like  the  countryman 
who  could  not  see  the  city  for  the  houses,  so 
we  could  not  see  the  park  for  the  trees. 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.         Ill 

The  storm  spent  the  strength  of  its  short- 
lived fury,  and  the  sun  shone  forth  again 
with  redoubled  splendour  before  we  reached 
the  goal  of  our  pilgrimage,  and  the  dream 
of  years  was  fulfilled.  At  last  we  were 
in  Stratf ord-on-Avon ! 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Nay,   Master,   dare   we    speak?      O    mighty 
shade, 
Sitting  enthroned  where  awful  splendours 

are, 
Beyond  the  light  of  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 
How  shall  we  breathe  thy   high   name   un- 
dismayed ? 
Poet,  in  royal  majesty  arrayed. 
Walking  with  mute  gods  through  the  realms 

afar  — 
Seer,  whose  wide  vision  time  nor  death  can 
bar, 
We  would  but  kiss  thy  feet,  abashed,  afraid! 
But  yet  we  love  thee,  and  great  love  is  bold. 
Love,  O  our  master,  with  his  heart  of  liame 
And  eye  of  fire,  dares  even  to  look  on  thee, 
For  whom  the  ages  lift  their  gates  of  gold ; 
And  his  glad  tongue  shall  syllable  thy  name 
Till  time  is  lost  in  God's  unsounded  seal 


112         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    AJIDEN. 

After  awliile  we  went  out  into  the  quaint, 
old  streets,  intentionally  avoiding  that  for 
which  we  came.  We  wandered  about,  now 
in  this  direction  and  now  in  that,  here  and 
there,  as  the  fancy  of  the  moment  led; 
straying  into  this  little  shop  where  a  ruddy- 
cheeked  old  woman  in  fluted  cap  and  snowy 
apron  sold  plums  and  pears  ;  pausing  for  a 
moment  at  the  window  of  another  more 
pretentious,  with  its  photographs  and  sou- 
venirs of  Stratford ;  lingering,  lured  by  a 
nod  and  smile,  at  some  cottage  door  where 
sat  a  wrinkled  dame  with  her  knitting,  the 
brown  interior  behind  her  aglow  with  the 
sunset  light ;  returning  the  grave  salutation 
of  a  worthy  in  a  belted  frock  of  white 
linen  that  fell  below  the  knees,  and  with 
large  full  sleeves, confined  at  the  wrist  by 
a  broad  cuff.  He  was  old,  but  he  was 
jaunty,  and  wore  a  tall,  high-crowned  black 
hat  as  if  it  had  been  a  royal  crown.  He 
may  have  been  a  butcher,  for  aught  I 
know ;  or  his  singular  costume  may  have 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.         II3 

been  that  of  some  local  brotherhood.  But 
it  was  picturesque  ;  and  he  might  have 
stepped  out  bodily  from  some  ancient 
picture-frame. 

"He  must  be  centuries  old,"  I  whis- 
pered. "Do  you  suppose  he  ever  saw 
Shakespeare  ? "  For  it  was  one  of  the 
peculiarities  of  Stratford,  as  far  as  we 
two  pilgrims  were  concerned,  that  we 
could  not  divest  ourselves  of  the  feeling 
that  the  whole  place  was  enchanted,  and 
its  men  and  women  phantoms. 

We  crossed  the  Avon,  and  at  length 
found  ourselves,  unawares,  where  every 
landmark  was  as  familiar  as  if  in  some 
previous  incarnation  we  had  seen  and 
known  it  all.  At  our  left  was  New  Place  ; 
at  our  right  was  the  Guild  Chapel  and 
Grammar  School ;  and  not  far  off,  above 
its  clustering  trees,  soared  the  gray  spires 
of  Holy  Trinity. 

Night  was  falling.  The  streets  were  silent 
and  deserted.     The  birds  were  asleep,  but 


N 


114         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

a  few  lonely  bats  wheeled  and  circled  round 
the  grim,  square  tower  of  the  Chapel  of  the 
Holy  Guild.  The  air  was  hushed  and  still, 
with  a  soft,  warm  dampness  that  was  full 
of  sweet  odours.  And  silently,  as  if  we 
had  been  spirits,  we  were  drawn  onward 
until  we  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the 
churchyard. 

It  was  dark  in  those  leafy  recesses,  but 
before  the  door  of  the  church  a  great 
lamp  flared,  lighting  the  long  vista  of  lime 
trees,  the  gray  tombstones  on  either  side, 
and  the  sombre  pile  above.  Neither  of  us 
spoke,  but  slowly,  reverently,  and  with 
fast-beating  hearts,  we  passed  up  the  wide 
pathway  and  stood  hand  in  hand  in  the 
shadows  of  the  portal. 

For  how  long  I  know  not.  Then  as 
silently  as  we  came  we  retraced  our  steps. 
It  is  worth  something,  in  such  a  place,  to 
have  by  one's  side  a  friend  who  under- 
stands one's  mood,  and  knows  the  blessed 
ministry  of  songs  without  words.  ^ 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  II5 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  when 
the  bells  of  Trinity  pealed  forth  we  obeyed 
the  summons.  Everything  seemed  strange 
and  phantasmal,  in  spite  of  the  feeling  of 
having  been  there  a  thousand  times  before. 
To  stand  quietly  before  one's  mirror  in 
the  mouldy  old  Shakespeare  Inn,  arranging 
one's  worldly,  fin-de-siecle  veil  and  bonnet 
strings,  and  yet  to  hear  thrilling  through 
the  sweet,  still  morning  air  the  peal  of  the 
very  bells  that  had  called  to  him  whose 
memory  makes  every  stone  in  Stratford  a 
sacred  shrine,  saying  to  his  soul  as  to 
ours,  "  Come  hither,  come  hither  !  "  — was 
not  this  an  experience  worth  living  for  ? 
Thanks  to  auspicious  fate,  this  visit  was 
before  the  new  chimes  of  Trinity  had  sup- 
planted the  old. 

All  Stratford  was  going  to  church  that 
morning.  Earth  was  as  bright  and  gay  as 
if  death  and  pain  had  never  entered  it. 
Birds  sang,  the  river  rippled  on  its  way, 
the  soft  air  just  stirred  the  tree  tops,  the 


Il6         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

very  gravestones  were  transfigured  in 
the  glad  sunshine.  As  we  passed  New 
Place  we  knew  we  were  following  the  very- 
path  he  must  have  trodden  three  c^turies 
ago  on  the  self-same  errand.  He  ?  Yes. 
What  matter  whether  one  uses  a  proper 
name  or  a  ]3ronoun.  It  is  all  one  here. 
Everybody  knows. 

We  were  given  seats  in  the  choir.  There 
was  the  usual  service,  devoutly  rendered, 
and  a  sermon.  I  confess  my  thoughts  were 
far  afield,  and  I  do  not  remember  a  word 
of  it.  But  one  little  touch  of  human  kind- 
ness will  be  always  associated  in  my  mind 
with  the  officiating  clergyman  that  day.  It 
so  happened  that  there  were  no  hymn  books 
in  our  pews  ;  and  noticing  this  he  beckoned 
to  one  of  the  choir  boys  and  gave  him  a 
whispered  direction.  Presently  the  lad 
brought  us  two  hymnals  and  hurried  back 
to  his  place  in  time  to  join  in  the  second 
verse. 

It    was    Communion    Sunday,  and    we 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.  II7 

stayed  to  the  holy  sacrament.  It  chanced 
that  as  I  approached  the  chancel  rail  I 
was,  without  any  volition  of  my  own,  borne 
along  towards  the  north  end.  When  I 
knelt  it  was  with  the  monument  of  Shake- 
speare above  my  bowed  head  and  his 
sacred  dust  below  it. 

It  is  a  comfort  that  some  few  things  in  this 
world  are  settled  beyond  all  peradventure. 
The  seven  cities  of  Greece  may  quarrel  as 
to  the  birthplace  of  Homer,  but  there  are 
at  least  some  facts  in  our  Shakespeare's 
life  that  we  know  for  a  certainty.  New 
Place,  the  home  of  his  mature  manhood, 
where  he  lived,  and  dreamed,  and  wrote, 
from  the  casements  of  which  he  must  often 
have  gazed  upon  the  dark  tower  across  the 
way,  —  New  Place,  where  were  the  trees 
that  he  planted,  and  the  gardens  in  which 
he  delighted,  and  from  which  without  doubt 
he  was  borne  to  his  burial  in  yonder  church, 
—  this  is  not  a  myth,  but  tangible  reality. 

Vandalism  has  done  its  work,   and  but 


ii8       IN  tup:  forest  of  ardex. 

few  of  its  stones  remain.  But  we  know 
when  and  of  whom  Shakespeare  bought  it, 
and  that  for  the  last  nineteen  years  of  his 
life  it  was  the  place  he  loved  best,  his 
refuge  and  stronghold.  One  gets  veiy  near 
to  the  heart  of  the  man  in  that  New  Place 
garden, — almost  as  near  as  when  one 
stands  by  the  grave  of  his  brother  Edmund 
in  that  grim  old  lady  chapel  of  St.  Sav- 
iour's. 

But  if  this  be  true  of  New  Place,  what 
shall  be  said  of  tbe  approach  to  Stratford 
Church  ?  Here,  too,  there  can  be  no  mis- 
take. If  we  are  proud  of  our  doubts,  we 
may  say  it  is  not  certain  in  which  of  the 
three  houses  owned  by  his  father  he  was 
born.  Who  cares  ?  It  is  enough  that  he 
loas  born.  We  may  say  that  many  of 
the  relics  in  Henley  Street  are  of  doubt- 
ful authenticity.  We  may  question  many 
things  in  our  superior  wisdom,  and  cavil  to 
OUT  heart's  content,  if  we  find  pleasure  in 
cavilling.    But  here,  on  this  straight  path- 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  IIQ 

way  from  street  to  portal,  the  pilgrim  may 
feel  absolutely  sure  he  is  treading  in  the 
footsteps  of  the  Master.  Here  he  must 
have  walked,  carrying  his  children  for  bap- 
tism ;  or  leading  little  Hamnet  by  the  hand  ; 
or  leaning  upon  his  fair  Judith's  strong, 
young  arm,  while  he  pointed  out  to  her  the 
birds  and  flowers  he  knew  so  well ;  or  es- 
corting Dame  Anne  to  the  church  door ;  or 
giving  cordial  greetings  to  the  friends  and 
neighbours  who,  beyond  all  cavil,  were  proud 
of  him  and  reverenced  him  then,  even  as 
their  descendants  reverence  him  now.  Up 
this  path,  too,  he  was  assuredly  carried  to 
his  burial.  The  bell  to  which  we  listened 
this  morning  tolled  his  knell,  and  these 
skies,  these  fields,  this  river,  heard  the 
requiem.  i?' 

Of  course  we  went  everywhere  —  to 
Henley  Street,  where  the  two  Miss  Chata- 
ways  (for  this  was,  if  I  mistake  not,  in  the 
last  year  of  their  long  reign),  gave  us  slips 
of  ivy  from  the  wall ;   to  Shottery,  where 


120         IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

Mrs.  Baker  dowered  us  with  rosemary 
from  the  old  garden,  with  pansies,  and 
many  another  common  yet  priceless  flower. 

"  '  That's  for  remembrance,'  you  know," 
she  said,  as  she  twisted  the  green  gray  spray 
into  the  posy  she  was  arranging. 

We  sought  the  Grammar  School  and  the 
hoary  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Cross,  where  in 
all  human  probability  the  lad  Shakespeare 
—  son  of  one  of  the  important  men  of  the 
town,  freeholder  in  his  own  right,  owner  of 
at  least  three  houses,  and  a  member  of  the 
corporation  —  went  to  school  as  befitted  his 
station,  and  there  learned  at  least  some 
Greek  and  Latin. 

But  all  the  time  it  was  as  if  we  were 
living  and  moving  in  a  dream.  Tlie  present 
of  Stratford  was  nothing.  The  past  was 
all.  The  heart  of  the  mystery,  the  secret  of 
these  Warwickshire  fields  and  streams,  why 
could  we  not  grasp  it  ?  Why  could  we  not 
fathom  it  ?  What  is  that  magical,  wonder- 
ful, elusive  something  that  we  call  genius  ? 


IN   THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.  121 

Why,  of  all  the  boys  who  played  in  the 
streets  of  Stratford  town,  or  wandered  by 
Avon's  flowery  banks,  was  this  one  William 
Shakespeare  singled  out  to  be  not  only  the 
greatest  man  of  his  own  time,  but  perhaps 
of  all  time  ?     AVho  shall  say  ? 

This  was  my  first  visit  to  Stratford- on- 
Avon.  Three  or  four  years  later  I  was  at 
the  Shakespeare  Inn  again.  Just  as  before, 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  the  place  was  be- 
wildering, overpowering.  I  could  not  sleep, 
and,  rising  at  midnight,  I  went  out  into  the 
moonlit  streets,  in  search  of  calmness  and 
repose  in  the  still,  fresh  air.  Passing  down 
High  Street  and  its  continuation  to  New 
Place,  I  leaned  over  the  railing  and  gazed 
long  at  the  foundations  of  the  house  under 
their  wire  screen,  rebuilding  it  in  fancy, 
and  restoring  it  to  its  former  beauty.  But 
the  grass,  the  roses,  the  trees  —  they  were 
as  fair,  as  fresh,  as  perfect  as  those  that 
bloomed  three  hundred  years  ago.  Then  I 
turned  and  passed  on,  till  I  found  myself 


122  IN    THK    FOREST    OF    ARDEX. 

again  facing  the  old  gray  cliurch  with  its 
tall  spire  among  the  stars,  and  the  Avon  at 
its  feet.  There  was  no  lamp  before  the  door 
this  time  ;  but  the  moon  lit  up  the  way,  and 
the  lime  trees,  swaying  in  a  light  wind,  cast 
flickering  shadows  on  the  pavement.  On 
either  hand  the  gravestones  stood  as  on 
my  first  visit,  mute  reminders  of  man's 
mortality. 

I  tried  the  door,  but  it  was  fast.  Then  I 
passed  round  to  the  south,  and  there  I 
found  entrance. 

The  moon  must  have  gone  behind  a  dense 
cloud,  for  not  one  ray  of  light  came  in 
through  the  tall  windows.  The  place  was 
pitchy  dark.  I  could  not  see  my  hand  be- 
fore my  face.  But  I  knew  I  must  be  about 
on  a  range  with  the  chancel,  and  crept 
al©ng,  feeling  my  way  until  I  was  able  to 
grasp  the  rail.  I  can  feel  the  cold  touch  of 
the  polished  brass  unto  this  day.  Keeping 
my  hand  upon  it,  I  moved  on  till  I  reached 
the  steps,  passed  them,   grasped  the  rail 


IN    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEX.  1 23 

again,  and  at  last  knelt  where  I  had  knelt 
at  the  sacrament,  above  Shakespeare's 
grave. 

I  was  not  frightened,  I  was  not  even 
greatly  overawed,  until  I  rose  from  my 
knees  and  found  that  even  with  my  hand 
upon  the  rail  I  had  lost  my  bearings  —  lost 
the  points  of  compass.  Then  I  said  to  my- 
self, "The  nave  is  behind  you,  of  course. 
Get  into  a  pew  somehow,  and  sit  down  and 
wait  for  daylight."  This  I  at  last  accom- 
plished. I  went  about  half-way  down  the 
nave,  slipped  into  a  pew,  and  rested  my  head 
upon  the  back  of  the  one  in  front  of  me. 
Then  the  strangeness  of  it  all,  the  weird- 
ness,  the  awesome  sense  of  invisible  pres- 
ences, overcame  me.  I  could  have  cried 
out  for  fear,  but  the  very  fear  restrained 
me.  I  dared  not  lift  my  eyes  to  see  if  the 
thick  darkness  was  broken. 

Suddenly  a  thought  came  to  my  aid. 
*'It  is  true  this  place  is  full  of  dead  folk. 
But  they  have  been  dead  so  long  that  it  is 


124         I^   THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN. 

as  if  they  were  nothing.  They  are  nothing 
by  this  time.  Why  should  you  fear  them  ?  " 
And  then  I  waited  patiently  till  I  could 
dimly  discern  the  effigies  of  the  Cloptons 
lying  on  their  marble  bed  in  the  faint,  gray 
light. 

Then  I  rose,  and  had  just  gi'oped  my  way 
to  the  door  by  which  I  had  entered  when  it 
was  opened  by  a  withered,  wrinkled  old 
crone  dressed  in  black  from   top  to  toe. 

She  carried  in  one  hand  a  bucket  of 
water,  and  in  the  other  a  dust-brush  and 
some  cloths. 

She  looked  at  me  wonderingly,  without 
speaking,  and  I  made  haste  to  explain  my 
predicament. 

"  How  did  you  get  in  ?"  she  asked, 
severely. 

"  The  door  was  not  locked,"  I  answered. 
"  I  opened  it  and  walked  in.  I  meant  no 
harm." 

"  But  how  came  you  here  ?  How  did 
you  know  the  way  ?" 


IX    THE    FOREST    OF    ARDEN.         1 25 

"  I  had  been  here  before,"  I  said  meekly. 
"  I  have  worshipped  at  this  altar.  I  knew 
the  way  hither." 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  she  said  with  even 
increased  severity.  "You  are  not  old 
enough  to  have  been  in  this  place  before.  " 

Just  then  the  great  bell  in  the  tower 
above  our  heads  clashed  and  clanged —  and 
I  awoke  to  find  myself  three  thousand 
miles  from  quiet  Stratford,  with  the  ringing 
of  factory  bells  and  the  shriek  of  steam 
whistles  in  my  ear.  My  last  visit  to  the 
church  of  Holy  Trinity  was  even  more  a 
dream  than  the  first. 

But  who  was  the  old  woman  whose  pre- 
cincts I  had  invaded  ?  To  the  day  of  my 
death  I  shall  feel  that  her  brushes  and 
brooms  made  the  place  sweet  and  tidy  three 
hundred  years  ago  ! 


V. 

AT  THE   PEACOCK  INN. 

V[0  matter  where  we  were,  but  this  is 
what  happened.  "  Haven't  we  done 
solid  work  enough  for  the  present?"  said 
Saint  Katharine  one  night  as  we  unpacked 
our  portmanteaux,  and  began  at  once  to 
make  our  rooms  look  cozy,  comfortable, 
and  homelike.  "  What  if  we  were  to  turn 
off  into  the  byways  and  hedges  to-morrow? 
Let's  go  into  the  country,  settle  our  brains, 
and  hear  the  birds  sing.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  the  Peacock  Inn  ?  " 

"  Never,"  I  answered  ;   "  where  is  it  ?  " 

"  In  Rowsley." 

"  And  where  may  Rowsley  be  ?" 

"In    Derbyshire.      And    while    we    are 
there,  we  may  as  well  see  Chatsworth  and 
Haddon  Hall.     That  is,  if  we  get  tired  of 
the  birds.     What  do  you  say  ?  " 
126 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN.  1 27 

I  said  "Yes,*'  confessing  that  I  had  had 
enough  of  mouldy  crypts  and  dead  men's 
bones  for  the  present. 

And  thus  it  happened  that  ^ye  turned 
aside  into  beautiful  Derbyshire  with  its 
rolling  hills,  its  wooded  heights,  its  fertile 
valleys. 

Rowsley  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
little  villages  in  all  England  ;  and  the  Pea- 
cock Inn  is  quaint,  old,  and  ivy -grown,  with 
roses  blooming  at  the  very  chimney-tops, 
and  a  shield  over  the  door  bearing  the  date 
1652.  It  has  small-paned,  latticed  win- 
dows, set  in  deep  recesses,  with  sills  mas- 
sive enough  for  a  fortress.  Surrounding  it 
are  large  old-fashioned  gardens  that  are 
enough  to  drive  a  flower-lover  wild  with 
envy  —  grounds  bosky  with  shrubbery, 
where  a  singing  brook  goes  wandering 
about  under  little  foot-bridges ;  and  where 
seats  in  all  manner  of  unexpected  places 
tempt  one  to  careless,  dreamful  idleness. 

Rowsley  itself  is  a  lotus-land,   where  it 


125  AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN. 

seems  always  afternoon.  Strolling  leisurely 
about  the  lovely  little  village,  where  every- 
body looked  well  kept  and  comfortable,  we 
could  but  wonder  how  the  people  lived. 
No  one  seemed  to  work  save  after  a  most 
desultory  fashion.  Up  a  little  lane,  away 
from  everything  but  a  wagon-maker's  shop, 
where  three  stalwart  men  were  devoting  all 
their  energies  to  the  mending  of  one  small 
cart-wheel,  we  found  the  village  post-office, 
buried  in  a  rose-garden  and  looking  like  a 
picture.  Up  another  lane  was  a  grocer's 
shop ;  and  opposite  the  inn  was  a  place 
where  one  could  buy  stationery  and  photo- 
graphs. In  the  window  of  about  every 
third  house  was  a  sign  in  big  letters  — 
"  Tea  and  hot  water,"  over  which  we 
puzzled  our  weak  brain's  not  a  little,  —  dis- 
covering at  last  that  the  cabalistic  words 
were  a  well-understood  hint  to  picnickers. 

We  saw  no  signs  of  any  other  business. 
But  the  place  was  as  clean  as  my  lady's 
chamber.     "  Where  do  they  put  their  rub- 


AT    THE    TE ACOCK    INX.  1 29 

bish?"  I  asked  of  my  secret  soul;  feeling 
morally  sure  that  though  there  was  none 
in  sight,  Rowsley  must  have  rubbish  and 
must  dispose  of  it.  And  at  length  I  found 
out !  That  word  "dispose  "  is  well  chosen. 
It  was  not  thrown  in  unsightly  heaps  by 
the  wayside,  nor  dumped  on  the  banks  of 
the  beautiful  river.  But  behind  high  stone 
walls,  over  which  the  tallest  man  cannot 
look  without  an  effort,  we  discovered,  at 
last,  dumping  grounds,  three  of  them,  in 
different  quarters  of  that  one  small  village. 
There,  quite  out  of  sight,  and  an  offence 
to  no  one,  the  slow  healing  and  assimilating 
process  goes  on  by  which  Nature  cleanses 
and  beautifies  all  with  which  she  has  to  do, 
hiding  even  old  tin  cans  and  broken  dishes 
in  a  tangle  of  bloom  and  verdure. 

But  it  is  not  for  rest  or  birdsong,  only, 
that  one  visits  the  Peacock  Inn.  Rowsley 
is  the  gate,  so  to  speak,  to  Chatsworth,  the 
stately  palace  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire. 

On  the  way  thither  one  bright  summer 

K 


130  AT    THE    PEACOCK    INX. 

morning,  we  stopped  at  Edensor  church- 
yard,—  a  quiet,  lovely  spot  where  five  or 
six  of  the  Earls  of  Cavendish  lie  under 
the  green  turf  in  unpretentious  graves. 
Edensor  is  called  a  "  model  village  ;  "  and 
nothing  could  be  more  perfect  in  its  way. 
There  the  Derbyshire  tenants  of  the  Duke 
live,  each  in  a  roomy,  well-built  stone  cot- 
tage set  in  a  garden  of  its  own,  where  all 
manner  of  flowers  and  vegetables  run  riot. 
The  streets  are  carefully  laid  out,  and  the 
drainage  and  sewerage  seem  perfect ;  as 
for  the  houses  themselves,  they  are  really 
like  a  series  of  small  villas,  differing  one 
from  another.  Castellated,  Norman,  Swiss, 
and  Elizabethan. 

Chatsworth  is  magnificent;  a  great  pile 
of  buff-colored  stone  against  a  background 
of  wooded  heights.  It  confronts  the  noon- 
day with  a  magnitude  and  grandeur  truly 
regal,  with  its  gardens  and  stately  conser- 
vatories ;  its  terraces,  lawns,  and  far-extend- 
ing woods ;  its  fountains  leaping  to  the  sky ; 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN.  I3I 

its  herds  of  deer  tossing  their  aiitkred  heads 
under  grand  old  trees,  and  its  picturesque 
stone  bridges  spanning  the  clear  waters  of 
the  Derwent.  We  went  through  the  house, 
of  course,  -^  which  is  like  other  show  places  : 
a  bewildering  labyrinth  of  halls,  courts, 
drawing-rooms  and  galleries,  of  pictures 
and  statues  and  bric-a-brac,  which  we 
scarcely  looked  at,  and  made  no  effort  to 
remember.  Show  places,  however  magnif- 
icent, had  small  attraction  for  either  of 
us ;  and  we  were  glad  to  make  short  work 
of  this  one.  The  family  were  not  in  resi- 
dence, and  I  asked  one  of  the  servants  if 
the  Duke  came  often  to  Chatsworth.  "Oh 
yes,  mem,"  he  answered,  "  he  comes  always 
in  the  back  part  of  the  year — about  Christ- 
mas time ! " 

And,  sure  enough,  he  came  the  next 
December,  as  usual, — the  seventh  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  —  an  old  man  of  eighty- 
three,  —  to  sleep  with  his  fathers  and  his 
sons   in   Edensor   churchyard.     His   later 


132  AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN. 

years  had  been  full  of  sorrow  and  be- 
reavement. One  who  knew  him  well  says : 
"  rathetic  indeed  in  later  years  was  the 
figure  of  the  Duke  as  he  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  long  table  in  the  great  dining-room 
at  Chatsworth.  His  grave,  strong  face,  the 
crown  of  white  hair  which  fell  carelessly 
over  the  high,  broad  forehead,  the  eyes 
alive  and  alert  with  a  fire  that  seemed  still 
young,  the  dignity,  the  beautiful,  quiet  dis- 
tinction of  manner,  the  stamp  of  intellect 
on  the  features,  the  bearing  which  had  all 
the  courtesy  of  an  earlier  century  and  was 
not  the  less  stately  for  the  bent  head  and 
the  slight  stoop  —  all  these  traits  gave  to 
him  the  air  of  one  of  the  portraits  by  Titian 
or  Van  Dyck  that  hung  hard  by.  His  sim- 
plicity was  that  of  the  grand  seigneur,  and 
so  was  his  genuineness;  never  in  his  life 
had  he  felt  called  upon  to  seem  something 
he  was  not." 

There  are  landlords  and  landlords.     This 
man's  management  of  his  vast  estates  com- 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN.  1 33 

manded  the  unwilling  admiration  of  his 
political  opponents,  and  extorted  approval 
even  from  the  Land  League. 

After  leaving  the  Hall  we  wandered  off 
by  ourselves  through  the  stately  green  soli- 
tudes in  search  of  the  real  object  of  our 
visit,  a  stone  tower  surrounded  by  a  moat 
still  filled  with  sluggish  water.  It  is  called 
Queen  Mary's  Bower.  Chatsworth  (an 
earlier  building,  however)  was  one  of  the 
prison-homes  of  Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  dur- 
ing her  eighteen  years'  captivity.  There, 
as  the  polite  phrase  is,  she  was  "placed  in 
the  charge"  of  the  famous  Bess  of  Hard- 
wick,  Countess  of  Shrewsbury.  AVhen  al- 
lowed to  wander  out  of  doors,  this  tower 
was  her  favourite  resort.  Over  the  broad 
stone  stairs  that  still  lead  like  a  bridge 
upward  across  the  moat,  her  slow%  despond- 
ing feet  must  have  passed  many  a  time,  that 
she  might  reach  a  little  square  enclosure  on 
the  other  side  of  the  tower. 

It  is  hardly  more  than  ten  feet  square, 


134  AT    THE    TEACOCK    IXN. 

a  mere  pocket-handkercliief,  as  it  were. 
But  here  with  her  own  hands  she  planted 
and  tended  a  little  garden.  The  rich  green 
turf  of  England  has  crept  over  it  now, 
obliterating  every  trace  of  shrub  and  flower. 
We  could  not  find  within  its  narrow  walls 
even  one  daisy  to  press.  But  the  silent 
sjjot  moved  us  strangely.  It  was  our  last 
thought  as  we  left  Chatsworth. 

Should  we  attempt  the  walk  to  Haddon 
Hall,  or  should  we  not  ?  The  directions 
given  us  were  most  enticing  —  a  bewilder- 
ing tangle  of  green  lanes,  old  stone  gate- 
ways, cottages,  footpaths,  beech  planta- 
tions, wooded  heights,  sloping  pastures,  lit- 
tle pools,  quaint  turnstiles,  and  broad  green 
drives.  It  was  a  great  temptation ;  but  we 
did  not  yield,  strong-minded  women  that 
we  were.  On  the  contrary  we  went  home 
to  luncheon,  leaving  Haddon  for  another 
day. 

Haddon  Hall  is  an  ideal  specimen  of  an 
old  baronial  mansion,  still  in  a  fair  state  of 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN.  I35 

preservation,  although  it  has  not  been  used 
as  a  family  residence  for  two  hundred 
years. 

The  approach  to  the  Ilall,  which  is  on 
high  ground,  rising  steeply  from  the  banks 
of  the  river  Wye,  is  incomparably  beautiful. 
Haddon  is  as  redolent  of  medieval  state  as 
Chatsworth  is  of  modern  splendour ;  and  it 
is  all  alive  with  poetry  and  romance.  The 
custodian  lives  in  a  pretty  lodge  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill,  in  the  garden  of  which  yew-trees 
are  clipped  into  the  rude  semblance  of 
peacocks  and  boarsheads,  the  crests  of  the 
Manners  and  Vernons.  His  three  young 
daughters  were  knitting  on  the  steps  lead- 
ing to  the  great  entrance  hall,  and  gave  us 
smiling  welcome. 

We  were  the  only  tourists  abroad  that 
morning.  Haddon  Hall  is  just  a  little  off 
the  common  route  of  tourist  travel.  In 
other  words,  it  is  not  one  of  the  stock  places 
whose  very  name  is  a  shibboleth  that  every 
American  traveller  f  ;els  bound  to  pronounce 


136  AT    THE    PEACOCK    INX. 

or  die  in  the  attempt.  For  this  reason,  or 
because  of  the  good  luck  that  seldom  failed 
us,  we  had  the  beautiful  old  place  all  to 
ourselves  that  summer  day.  Surely  the 
very  stars  in  their  courses  must  have  worked 
for  us  —  for  in  four  months  of  happy  loiter- 
ing in  the  highways  and  byways  of  England, 
we  found  ourselves  but  three  times  at  the 
heels  of  a  gaping  crowd.  Ah,  the  differ- 
ence ! 

The  lassies  gladly  led  us  from  room  to 
room,  letting  us  linger  and  loiter  at  our 
will.  To  fully  understand  the  charm  of  the 
place,  one  needs  to  know  that  the  estate  of 
Haddon  was  given  by  William  the  Con- 
queror, not  long  after  the  battle  of  Hastings, 
to  his  illegitimate  son,  William  Peveril,  a 
descendant  of  whom  is  said  to  be  Walter 
Scott's  "Peveril  of  the  Peak."  The  Peak 
is  Haddon;  or  perhaps  it  is  wiser  to  say 
Haddon  claims  to  be  the  Peak.  Those  were 
troublous  times,  and  the  place  passed  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  II.  into  the  possession  of 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    INN.  1 37 

the  Avenels,  and   thence  by  marriage  to 
Kichard  Vernon. 

History  repeats  itself  continually,  and  so 
does  the  "old,  old  stoiy."  Derbyshire  had 
its  Montagues  and  Capulets,  its  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  The  Vernons  who  owned  Haddon 
Hall,  and  the  Manners,  the  family  of  the 
Duke  of  Rutland,  were  at  sword's  points. 
Almost  as  a  matter  of  course  Sir  John 
Manners  fell  deeply  in  love  with  the  fair 
Dorothy  Vernon,  the  daughter  of  Sir  George 
Vernon,  called  the  King  of  the  Peak,  and 
the  last  of  his  name  that  lived  at  Haddon. 
The  natural  consequences  ensued.  Tradi- 
tion says  that  Sir  John  disguised  himself  as 
a  forester,  and  haunted  the  Haddon  woods, 
thus  obtaining  brief  glimpses  of  his  lady 
love,  and  now  and  then  a  stolen  interview 
with  her.  Tradition  farther  saith  that  on 
the  night  of  her  sister's  wedding  she  stole 
away  from  the  gay  company  in  her  gala 
dress,  fled  down  a  flight  of  stone  steps,  still 
known    as  "Dorothy's  stairs,"   glided,   a 


138  AT    TIIK    TE ACOCK    INN. 

fair,  white,  trembling  vision,  through  the 
long  length  of  the  shadowy  terrace,  and 
crossed  a  quaint  foot-bridge  where  her  lover 
awaited  her.  Away  they  rode  into  Leices- 
tershire, where  they  were  married  the  next 
morning. 

But  this  escapade  ended  the  feud.  The 
two  papas  forgave  the  adventurous  young 
couple,  and  on  the  death  of  Sir  George,  the 
estate  of  Haddon  Hall  passed  into  the 
possession  of  Sir  John  Manners  and  his 
beautiful  Dorothy.  The  Manners  and 
Vernon  arms  are  quartered  together  on  a 
shield  over  the  door  now,  with  the  legend, 
"God  save  the  Vernons,"  —  a  worthy 
tribute  from  a  former  foe. 

If  one  could  only  put  impressions  into 
words,  and  convey  to  other  senses  the  per- 
fume of  the  flower  !  Lingeringly,  loiter- 
ingly,  we  roamed  through  the  great  mansion. 
One  of  the  young  girls  with  her  knitting- 
work  was  ever  within  call,  ready  to  answer 
questions,  if  questions  were  asked,  or  to  be 


AT    THE    PEACOCK    IXX.  I39 

silent  when  silence  was  golden.  Every- 
where there  was  a  hushed  repose,  a  tan- 
talizing reticence  —  as  if  the  very  walls 
could  have  spoken,  hut  would  not.  One 
listened  involuntarily  for  footsteps  and 
whispers. 

We  went  from  the  chaplain's  room  —  so- 
called  —  which  seemed  anything  hut  sacer- 
dotal, with  a  pair  of  ancient  jack  hoots  and 
a  leathern  doublet  in  lieu  of  priestly  vest- 
ments—  to  the  curious  old  chapel,  rough, 
massive,  almost  rude,  in  spite  of  some  fine 
Norman  w^ork  and  a  stained-glass  window 
of  the  fifteenth  century ;  from  the  huge 
kitchen,  with  its  enormous  blackened  fire- 
place, to  the  panelled  dining-room.  Here 
is  an  oriel  window  overlooking  the  garden, 
where  many  a  fair  dame,  no  doubt,  sat  with 
her  maidens  round  her  in  the  springtime  of 
the  year.  Then  on  we  passed  through  the 
great  banqueting  hall,  an  apartment  worthy 
of  its  imposing  name,  with  its  raised  dais, 
its  minstrel's  gallery,  and  its  long  oaken 


140  AT    Tin-:    PKVCOCK    INX. 

tables  that  once  groaned  beneath  the  weight 
of  boar's  head  and  wassail  bowl,  into  the 
drawing-room  hung  with  old  tapestries, 
marvellous  to  behold,  and  rich  with  carvings 
and  panellings,  black  as  ebony.  Here, 
too,  is  a  great  fireplace,  with  curious,  half- 
alive,  self -asserting  andirons,  reminding  one 
irresistibly  of  those  lachimo  took  note  of  in 
the  bed-chamber  of  Imogen.  Hard  by  was 
another  bed-chamber,  that  of  the  Earl ;  and 
here,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  truth  that  it  is 
but  a  step  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  we 
were  shown  the  hooded  nest  in  which  Sir 
George  Manners  was  rocked  when  a  baby, 
and  the  canopied  bed  in  which  he  died. 
Tapestries,  dim  and  faded  in  colour,  but 
wonderfully  preserved,  adorn  the  walls,  and 
reaching  from  the  mantelpiece  to  the  ceil- 
ing were  stone  carvings,  grotesques  of  every 
imaginable  shape  —  that  looked  as  if  they 
might  have  been  born  of  the  pyramids. 

Of  course  we  saw  the  bed  where  Queen 
Elizabeth  once  slept  "  in  maiden  medita- 


AT    THE    PEACOCK   INN.  I4I 

tion  fancy  free."  The  stately  vestal  must 
have  been  something  of  a  gad-about.  She 
seems  to  have  slept  in  full  one-half  of  the 
state  chambers  in  England,  —  as  Charles  I. 
did  in  the  other  half.  We  paced  the  long 
ball-room  —  so  long  that  the  receding  vista 
dwindles  almost  to  a  point,  and  magnificent 
with  carved  oak  and  floriated  ceiling  — 
and  at  length  descended  to  the  garden  by 
the  very  stairs  down  which  Dorothy  fled, 
and  found  ourselves  on  the  terrace  with 
its  balustrade  of  arched  and  battlemented 
stone,  and  its  enormous,  wide-spreading 
yew-trees. 

But  days,  even  summer  days,  are  short, 
and  travellers'  ways  are  long.  We  could 
not  stay  at  the  Peacock  Inn  forever.  On 
our  last  Sunday  we  attended  service  in  the 
village  church,  about  two  minutes'  walk 
from  our  abiding-place.  In  a  small  chantry, 
shut  off  from  the  nave  by  crimson  curtains, 
is  a  recumbent  figure  in  white  marble,  — 
that  of  the  young  wife  of  the  jDresent  Duke 


142  AT    THE    PEACOCK   IXX. 

of  Rutland.  A  little  child  lies  by  its  side, 
and  a  lily  has  just  fallen  from  the  nerve- 
less hand. 

In  the  afternoon  it  rained,  and  the  guests 
of  the  house  petitioned  for  a  fire  in  the 
coffee-room.  Presently  it  was  blazing  away 
on  the  old  hearthstone  ;  and  another  lighted 
up  the  quaint,  brown-raftered  hall,  with 
its  carved  oak  furniture,  black  with  age, 
and  its  curious  relics  of  bygone  days. 
Among  these  is  a  funereal  tablet,  telling  of 
the  death  of  a  certain  Duchess  of  Rutland 
in  1700.  It  has  hung  there  ever  since,  and 
records  not  only  her  transcendent  virtues, 
but  the  fact  that  she  "  died  of  a  stricture," 
whatever  that  may  be. 

We  gathered  about  the  two  fires,  stran- 
gers from  many  lands,  and  I  see  that  my 
note-book  declares  that  it  was  "very  pleas- 
ant,"—  a  statement  that  certainly  does 
not  lie  open  to  the  charge  of  womanish 
exaggeration. 


VI. 

AT   HA  WORTH. 

TTfE  had  come  up  from  Lincoln  via  Dor- 
caster  and  Bradford  into  the  very- 
heart  of  the  West  Riding.  "Next  station 
is  Keithley,  ladies,"  said  the  small  boywho 
punched  our  tickets.  "Change  there  for 
Haworth." 

"Keithley?"  Our  maps  and  guide- 
books -were  silent  as  to  any  station  of  that 
name ;  but  a  moment's  consideration  only 
was  enough  to  show  us  that  "Keithley" 
was  the  local  pronunciation  of  Keighley, 
a  place  well  known  to  all  lovers  of  Charlotte 
Bronte,  and  known,  doubtless,  to  others  as 
well.  Yet  I  fancy  few  Americans  ever 
gave  a  thought  to  the  busy  manufacturing 
town  save  in  its  connection  with  the  three 
gifted  women  to  whom,  comparatively  in- 
significant as  it  is,  it  was  the  door  that 
143 


144  AT  n  A  WORTH. 

opened  into  the  wide,  unknown  world 
beyond  it. 

Into  the  station  we  rolled  at  last,  and 
found  we  had  an  hour  to  wait  for  the  train 
on  the  branch  road  to  Haworth. 

"  Meanwhile,  shall  we  explore  the  town, 
Saint  Katharine  ?  "  I  asked. 

But  she  answered  in  unsaintly  wise : 
"We  have  been  exploring  too  many  cathe- 
dral crypts,  wherein  are  dead  men's  bones 
—  and  other  things.  Let  us  save  what 
little  strength  is  left  us  for  Ilaworth." 

So  to  the  waiting-room  we  went,  where 
a  calm-faced,  black-gowned  woman  sat  at 
a  little  table,  sewing.  She  rose,  smiling, 
to  do  the  honours  ;  and  at  once  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  jjlace  grew  kindly  and  home- 
like. Courteous  and  attentive  before,  she 
gi-ew  heartily  cordial  as  soon  as  she  found 
we  were  going  on  a  pious  pilgrimage  to 
Haworth. 

"  Many  people  went  there  in  the  old  days  ; 
not  so  many  go  now,"  she  said. 


AT    11 A  WORTH.  1 45 

"  But  liow  is  that  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Surely, 
it  is  not  yet  time  for  the  Brontes  to  be 
forgotten  ! ' ' 

"  Indeed  it  is  not  that,"  she  replied, 
"though  many  folk  have  short  memories. 
But  since  the  parsonage  door  has  been  shut 
in  the  face  of  all  who  come  for  the  sake  of 
them  who  are  dead  and  gone,  and  since  the 
new  church  took  the  place  of  the  old  one, 
it's  only  now  and  then  that  a  stranger  cares 
to  go  to  Haworth,  — -or  those  who  are  not 
strangers,  either,"  she  added  after  a  little. 

"  Then  we  cannot  see  the  parsonage  ?  " 

"Ye  can  see  the  outside  of  it.  None  can 
hinder  that.  But  it's  no  good  trying  to 
get  in.  I'd  advise  ye  not.  He's  a  bit  comi- 
cal, the  parson  is.  Yes,  we  call  him  a 
comical  stick.  He's  like  the  ortz,"  which, 
as  near  as  we  could  make  out,  was  some 
wayside  plant,  with  a  gnarled  and  crooked 
stalk.  Never  having  heard  of  it  before, 
however,  the  full  force  of  the  simile  was 
quite  lost  upon  us. 

L 


146  AT    HAWORTII. 

The  station  woman  was  well  read,  at 
least  in  "  Shirley,"  every  detail  of  which 
she  had  at  her  tongue's  end. 

"  You  should  go  to  Liversedge,"  she  ad- 
vised. "That  was  the  scene  of 'Shirley.' 
There's  many  a  one  can  show  you  where 
were  the  hall  and  the  old  mill  and  the  rec- 
tory. And  they  do  say  that  Shirley  were 
Miss  Emily  Bronte  herself." 

We  looked  for  bleakness  and  barrenness 
as  we  approached  the  region  of  the  moors. 
Instead  of  this,  the  country  had  been  grow- 
ing fresher,  greener,  and  more  picturesquely 
beautiful  ever  since  we  left  Bradford ;  and 
the  rolling  hills  made  our  hearts  bound 
after  the  low,  flat  lands  of  the  "  fen  coun- 
try "  and  Lincolnshire.  When  the  train 
stopped  at  Haworth,  and  we  stepped  out 
upon  the  uncovered  platforjn,  we  could  not 
believe  our  eyes.  Haworth  ?  Was  this  Ha- 
worth, —  the  Haworth  of  Charlotte  Bronte  ? 
Impossible  !  Before  us,  in  the  narrow  val- 
ley through  which  the  railway  ran,  lay  a 


AT    IIAWORTH.  147 

spick  and  span  new  village,  witli  tall,  smok- 
ing factory  chimneys  dominating  over  tlie 
long  rows  of  tenement-houses,  —  houses 
which  were  gradually  creeping  up  the 
higher  ground  beyond.  But  w^here  were 
the  ch.urch  and  the  parsonage  and  the  Black 
Bull  Inn  ? 

The  guard  hurriedly  deposited  our  lug- 
gage upon  the  platform,  and  the  train  swept 
on.  Not  a  porter  was  in  sight,  not  a  cab, 
nor  a  "four-wheeler."  But,  presently,  a 
young  fellow,  wearing  a  gold-banded  cap, 
came  to  our  deliverance.  Haworth,  old 
Haworth,  that  is,  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  station,  quite  out  of  reach  of  our  pres- 
ent point  of  vision.  Forthwith,  he  piloted 
us  across ;  and  towering  above  us,  "  so 
near  and  yet  so  far,"  was  the  goal  of  our 
desires. 

But  how  were  we  to  get  there  ?  Up  the 
steep  height  that  seemed  almost  perpendicu- 
lar climbed  a  narrow  lane  bordered  on  each 
side  by  a  low  stone  wall.     Our  new  friend 


148  AT    IIAWORTir. 

eyed  us  from  under  liis  visor.  "It's  not  so 
very  far,"  he  said,  "  but  it's  steep.  Ye  can 
walk,  and  I'll  carry  the  luggage." 

"But  where  are  your  carriages?"  I 
cried  in  dismay.     "  Are  there  none  here  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head.  "  AYell,  they  doesn't 
often  coom  to  the  train,"  he  drawled  dubi- 
ously. "  Ye'd  have  a  long  wait,  and  it  'ud 
cost  ye  all  0'  two  an'  sax,  an'  mebbe  three 
shillings." 

Evidently,  such  reckless  extravagance 
was  not  countenanced  in  Haworth.  We 
bade  him  gather  up  our  belongings  and  lead 
the  way.  Two  portmanteaus,  two  hand- 
bags, and  a  shawl-strap.  He  wrestled  with 
the  five  pieces  for  a  while  in  a  vain  attempt 
to  handle  them  all,  then  regretfully  called 
a  small  boy  to  his  aid,  and  the  procession 
started. 

It  was  very  much  like  trying  to  walk  up 
the  side  of  a  house,  provided  the  house  had 
an  uneven  surface,  and  was  well  set  with 
cobble-stones.      At   length   I  stopped    for 


AT    HAAVORTH.  I49 

breath.  Still  far  above  us  loomed  the  gray 
church  tower,  and  I  knew  the  Black  Bull 
Inn  was  next  door  to  it.  "It'll  be  easier 
after  a  bit,"  said  our  guide,  consolingly. 
"But  them  as  built  this  town  in  the  first 
place  built  it  the  wrong  way  altogether.  I 
never  could  see  the  reason  o'  it." 

Saint  Katharine  and  I  sat  down  on  a  con- 
veniently broad  stone  in  the  low  wall,  to 
laugh  as  well  as  to  rest,  and  our  escort  fol- 
lowed our  example  as  he  wiped  his  flushed 
face. 

"  Did  you  know  the  Brontes  ?  "  I  asked 
as  we  sat  there. 

"No.  They  were  all  dead  afore  my 
time.  I  wor  not  born  here.  I'm  from 
Derbyshire.  But  I  wor  thinking  it  wor  for 
them  yo  coom." 

"  You  are  right,"  I  answered.  "  But  we 
are  told  that  we  cannot  see  the  parsonage. 
How  is  that  ?     Do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  knows  little  about  that,"  he  said  with 
some  hesitation.     "But  I  knows  him  very 


150  AT    HAWORTII. 

well.  I  sings  in  the  choir."  And  he 
blushed  under  his  tan,  as  he  beamed  all 
over.  Evidently,  it  was  a  great  thing  to 
sing  in  the  choir. 

Up  we  went,  higher  and  higher.  The 
new  town  lay  at  our  feet :  the  old  one  was 
still  above  us,  with  the  moors  stretching  far 
beyond. 

We  began  to  have  a  fellow-feeling  for  the 
Haworth  doctor,  made  famous  by  Mrs.  Gas- 
kell,  for  whom,  when  he  refused  to  come 
to  the  aid  of  the  lad  who  was  bleeding  to 
death,  this  apology  was  made,  "  He's  owd, 
yo  seen,  and  asthmetic  ;  and  it's  up  hill." 

But  at  length  we  turned  into  a  sort  of 
paved  court,  or  winding  way,  broader  than 
the  lane,  and  came  out  at  a  right  angle 
upon  a  street  paved  with  rough  flags  and 
cobble-stones,  and  hardly  wider  than  a 
wide  garden  path.  I  had  completely  lost 
the  points  of  compass,  but  I  fancied  it  was 
east  and  west.  It  was  as  steep  as  the 
ascent  we  had  made  in  the  other  direction, 


AT    HAWORTII.  I5I 

and  was  built  up  as  closely  as  a  city  block, 
the  queer,  irregular  houses  of  varying 
heights,  but  mostly  tall  for  the  width,  or 
rather  for  the  narrowness  of  the  street, 
looking  as  if  they  had  been  pressed  together, 
and  had  thus  crowded  each  other  out  of 
shape.  A  heavily  loaded  cart  was  toiling 
up  the  hill,  drawn  by  four  clumsy-footed 
horses,  with  high,  oddly  shaped  collars, 
all  liarnessed  tandem.  And  for  a  good 
reason.  There  was  not  space  enough  to 
drive  them  abreast. 

"This  is  what  we  call  the  main  street," 
our  guide  announced  proudly,  with  an  in- 
clusive wave  of  the  hand. 

"We  looked  up  and  down :  at  our  left,  the 
long,  narrow,  steep  descent ;  at  our  right, 
and  but  a  little  way  off,  the  street  made  a 
sharp  curve,  and  ended  in  a  small,  irregular 
plateau,  which  is  probably  in  English  fash- 
ion called  the  market-place.  Just  at  this 
curve  stood  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  in  the  very 
shadow   of  the   church.    To   say  that  our 


152  AT    IIAWORTH. 

hearts  sank  within  us,  so  dark,  so  grim,  so 
altogether  forbidding,  did  the  old  hostelry 
iook,  is  to  use  a  very  tame  expression. 
But  it  was  the  best  in  the  place  ;  and 
who  would  have  gone  elsewhere,  even  if  it 
had  not  been  ?  So,  after  paying  our  young 
choir-singer  two  shillings,  which  he  had 
certainly  earned,  and  congratulating  our- 
selves on  having  saved  all  of  one  shilling  by 
walking,  we  proceeded  to  investigate.  En- 
tering the  door,  which  was  on  a  line  with 
the  street,  we  found  a  hall  or  passageway, 
with  low,  dark  ceilings,  and  a  stone  floor 
full  of  inequalities,  out  of  which,  round  a 
corner,  rose  a  flight  of  stone  stairs,  worn 
into  such  great  hollows  by  the  tread  of 
generations  dead  and  gone  as  to  be  positively 
dangerous.  In  this  hall  hung,  by  actual 
count,  fifteen  hams  in  the  process  of  curing. 
On  the  left,  however,  was  a  little  coffee- 
room,  comfortable  enough,  with  its  smart 
carpet  and  hair-cloth  sofa,  into  which  we 
were  escorted  by  the  landlady  herself. 


AT    HAWORTH.  1 53 

Could  she  give  us  a  room  with  two  beds  ? 
For  we  two  lone  women  felt  a  strange  un- 
willingness to  be  separated  that  night. 

No,  she  could  not. 

Could  she  give  us  two  adjoining  rooms  ? 

No,  she  could  not. 

What,  then,  could  she  do  ? 

She  could  give  us  one  room,  with  one  bed, 
but  not  two  rooms.  For  if  any  commercial 
traveller  should  happen  along,  it  would  be 
"awkward"  (her  own  expression).  How 
could  we  expect  the  luxury  of  a  room,  or 
even  a  bed,  each,  when  there  were  but  two 
guest-chambers  ? 

But  we  could  take  our  choice  of  the  two, 
that  was  one  comfort.  So  up  we  went, 
picking  our  way  carefully,  and  expecting  to 
find  the  accommodations  offered  of  most 
primitive  fashion. 

We  had  already  learned  to  look  for  incon- 
gruities. But  our  surprise  thereat  was  sel- 
dom greater  than  when  we  found  in  those 
little,    low-ceiled    chambers    perhaps    the 


154  AT    IIAWORTH. 

richest  and  handsomest  old  mahogany 
furniture  we  had  seen  in  the  United  King- 
dom, with  linen  and  appointments  to  match. 
Bedsteads  and  bureaus,  massive  and  finely 
wrought,  were  dark  as  port  wine  and  shone 
like  glass. 

AVe  made  our  choice  ;  and  forthwith  the 
landlady  deprecated  it,  and  strongly  ad- 
vised us  to  take  the  other  room,  giving  as  her 
chief  argument  not  only  that  it  was  the 
finer,  but  that  most  visitors  preferred  it,  be- 
cause it  overlooked  the  graveyard  !  We 
abided  by  our  first  choice. 

Could  we  have  a  carriage  to  take  us  at 
once  to  the  moors  ?  The  afternoon  was  on 
the  wane,  and  already  the  sunset  was  begin- 
ning to  kindle  its  fires  in  the  west.  How 
far  was  it  to  the  waterfall,  —  Charlotte 
Brontd's  waterfall  ?  It  was  a  matter  of  sev- 
eral miles.  If  we  w^ere  to  see  it,  we  must 
ride,  much  as  we  would  have  preferred  to 
walk.  But  there  was  no  carriage  ;  and,  if 
there  were,   there  was  no  man  about  the 


AT    HAWORTII.  1 55 

premises  but  the  hostler.  And  he  wasn't 
there,  either,  having  "gone  somewhere" 
that  afternoon.  It  was  only  after  prolonged 
discussion  that  we  succeeded  in  making  our 
hostess  understand  that  the  excursion  could 
not  be  indefinitely  postponed,  and  that,  if 
there  was  anything  to  ride  in  in  Haworth, 
we  wanted  it  immediately.  She  meditated 
placidly.  Could  we  go  in  a  dog-cart,  for 
instance  ? 

Yes  :  we  could  go  in  a  dog-cart,  a  donkey- 
cart,  a  hay-cart,  or  any  kind  of  a  cart. 

It  appeared  at  last,  that  dog-cart.  I 
climbed  up  beside  the  driver.  Saint  Kath- 
arine got  in  behind,  and  off  we  started.  It 
was  worth  all  the  trouble,  and  something 
never  to  be  forgotten,  that  drive  in  the 
flush  of  the  golden  sunset,  up  the  breezy 
hills  and  over  the  moors  stretching  far  and 
wide  like  prairies,  and  just  beginning  to 
take  on  the  purple  glory  of  the  blossoming 
heather.  Our  driver  was  a  Haworth  man, 
bom  and  bred  ;  and  very  well  did  he  know 


156  AT    IIAWORTII. 

the  story  of  the  sisters  three  who  had  made 
this  out-of-the-way  Yorkshire  village  a 
Mecca.  He,  too,  knew  "  it  was  for  them 
ye  coom." 

On  the  top  of  a  hill  from  which  it  seemed 
as  if  the  lonely  moors  stretched  on  every 
side  to  the  horizon,  he  brought  his  swift- 
footed  black  pony  to  a  standstill.  We  were 
but  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  little 
waterfall  which  was  a  favourite  resort  of 
Miss  Bronte's,  and  by  the  side  of  which, 
tradition  says,  she  wrote  many  chapters  of 
"  Jane  Eyre."     Thither  we  went. 

The  water  was  very  low,  for  a  long  drought 
had  dried  up  half  the  springs  in  England. 
A  slender  stream  trickled  sleepily  over  the 
stones,  and  that  was  all.  But  the  little 
green  dell  was  quiet  and  secluded  in  the 
midst  of  the  brown  and  purple  of  the  moors, 
the  air  w-as  sweet  and  fresh,  the  sky  over- 
head was  both  blue  as  a  sapphire  and  pink 
as  an  apple-blossom  ;  and  it  was  good  to  be 
there.     Nevertheless,  I  had  serious  doubts 


AT    IIAWORTII.  157 

as  to  those  chapters  of  "Jane  Eyre." 
AVriting  under  shady  trees,  to  the  tune  of  a 
tinkling  waterfall,  is  all  very  well  in  theory, 
but  it  is  apt  to  he  quite  another  thing 
in  practice.  The  poet  betakes  himself  to 
the  sunny  pastures  or  the  woods,  and 
vainly  essays  a  song  in  praise  of  the 
golden  afternoon.  Both  voice  and  harp 
are  out  of  tune.  The  next  morning,  in 
the  dulness  of  his  study,  maybe  with  the 
autumn  rain  dashing  drearily  against  the 
window-panes,  the  song  sings  itself. 

As  one  sees  the  moors  from  a  carriage 
it  seems  impossible  that  an  adult  in  his 
senses  could  lose  his  way.  The  stories 
of  such  mishaps  seem  fabulous.  But, 
when  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the  high- 
way and  the  dog-cart  and  attempted  to 
retrace  our  steps,  we  found  it  not  quite 
easy  to  say  whether  we  had  come  this 
way  or  that  way.  To  an  unaccustomed 
eye,  while  there  are  many  paths,  there  are 
few  landmarks ;    and   we    could    see   how 


158  AT    IIAWORTir. 

one  might  wander  up  and  down  and  round- 
about, and  be  long  in  finding  one's  way- 
out.  As  we  climbed  to  our  seats  again, 
we  said  as  much  to  our  driver. 

"Yet,"  he  said,  "there's  many  a  one 
about  here  who  can  set  snares  for  the 
grouse  of  wire  no  thicker  than  a  hair,  and 
with  nought  to  mark  the  place,  and  go 
and  lay  his  hand  on  them  wi'  his  eyes 
shut." 

"But  how?"  we  asked.  "How  can 
he  find  them?" 

He  laughed,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  That's  what  they  don't  tell,"  he  said; 
and,  not  caring  to  pry  too  closely  into  the 
secrets  of  the  poachers,  we  were  silent. 
Presently  he  stopped  again,  and  pointed 
with  his  whip, 

"  Ha'  ye  read  Mrs.  Gaskell's  book  ?  "  he 
asked.     No  need  to  ask  which  book. 

"  Yes,"  we  answered. 

"An'  do  ye  mind  the  story  o'  the  old 
woman  an'  her  calf  ?    How  she  met  Miss 


AT    HAWORTII.  1 59 

Bronte  one  day  walking  hereabouts,  an' 
cried  out  to  her,  '  Ho,  ho.  Miss  Bronte,  ha' 
yo  seen  anything  o'  my  cofe  ?  '  Miss  Bronte 
said  how  could  she  tell,  for  she  didn't  know 
the  calf.  '  Well,  nah,'  said  the  old  woman, 
'  it's  a-getting  up  nah  betwixt  a  cah  an'  a 
cofe,  what  we  call  a  stirk.  Will  yo  turn 
it  this  way  if  yo  happen  to  see't?  Ah, 
do  now,  Miss  Bronte.'  Do  ye  mind  the 
story  ?  " 

Yes,  we  remembered  it.  Could  anything 
show  more  clearly  the  simplicity  of  her  rela- 
tions with  her  father's  flock  ?  He  went  on  : 
"Well,  then,  do  ye  see  the  little  house  yon, 
under  the  last  clump  o'  trees  ?  That's 
where  ta  old  woman  lived." 

It  is  my  impression  he  said  lives.  But,  as 
the  incident  he  referred  to  must  have  oc- 
curred at  least  thirty  years  ago,  it  is  best  to 
be  on  the  safe  side,  and  not  assume  the  role 
of  a  resurrectionist. 

We  returned  to  the  inn,  with  our  hands 
full  of  heather,  and,  while  supper  was  being 


l60  AT    IIAWORTII. 

made  ready,  went  out  for  our  first  near 
view  of  the  church  and  parsonage.  The 
former  has  been  not  so  much  restored  as 
pulled  down  and  built  over  again.  Noth- 
ing is  left  of  the  church  of  the  Bront6 
days  but  the  tower.  We  made  no  attempt 
to  go  in  that  night,  neither  did  we  wan- 
der long  among  the  graves.  Anything 
drearier,  darker,  denser,  and  more  un- 
canny, than  that  old  graveyard,  where  the 
dead  seem  to  lie  huddled  one  upon  an- 
other, tomb  hustling  tomb  in  the  deep 
shadows  of  tree  and  church  tower,  it  would 
be  hard  to  imagine.  Perhaps  the  hour  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  and  the  low  sough- 
ing of  the  wind.  But  we  were  glad  to  pick 
our  way  out  as  rapidly  as  we  could,  treading 
upon  grave  mounds  in  spite  of  our  care,  and 
feeling  as  if  we  were  crushing  hearts  be- 
neath our  feet. 

Once  out,  however,  upon  the  footpath 
that  runs  along  the  wall  of  the  church- 
yard to  the  parsonage,  we  found  the  earth 


AT   HAWORTII.  l6l 

was  still  bright  with  the  lingering  after- 
glow of  sunset,  and  took  courage  to  go  on. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  here  how  the 
Haworth  parsonage  is  situated.  All  the 
reading  world  knows  how  it  faces  upon 
the  churchyard,  which,  indeed,  surrounds 
it  on  three  sides.  A  narrow  yard  lies 
between  it  and  the  place  of  graves;  and 
from  the  lower  windows  of  the  house  the 
tombstones  may  possibly  be  hidden  now  by 
a  belt  of  trees  and  shrubs  that  look  as  if 
of  recent  growth.  The  tiny  court  was  gay 
with  scarlet  geraniums  and  other  bright- 
hued  flowers  that  night ;  and  as  we  looked 
longingly  through  the  paling  that  divides 
it  from  the  by-street,  or  lane,  (at  the  end 
of  the  house)  we  saw  two  young  lassies 
trundling  hoops,  and  heard  the  sound  of 
merry  voices.  Doubtless  the  house  as  well 
as  the  church  has  been  "freshened  up." 
But  it  is  the  same  unpretentious  gray 
stone  house,  nevertheless,  with  the  same 
walls    and   the    same    windows ;    and    we 

M 


l62  AT    IIAWOIiTH. 

knew  well  in  which  one  of  those  front 
chambers  the  short,  sad  life  of  Charlotte 
Bronte  went  out. 

After  supper  we  sat  long  in  the  gloaming, 
looking  out  upon  the  little  market-place 
from  which  three  or  four  steep,  narrow 
lanes  struggled  hither  and  thither.  It  was 
a  strange  picture,  as  foreign  in  character 
as  if  it  had  been  in  the  heart  of  France 
instead  of  England.  Across  the  way  was 
a  small  shop,  where  somebody  advertised 
himself  as  "  Dealer  in  "Wines  and  Liquors." 
On  a  wooden  bench  by  the  side  of  the  door, 
four  men,  one  in  a  blue  blouse,  and  one  with 
an  imposing  gray  beard  and  skullcap,  sat 
indolently  lounging  as  they  smoked  their 
long  clay  pipes  and  discussed  Yorkshire 
politics  with  many  gestures  and  loud  voci- 
feration. To  them  presently  appeared 
a  Salvation  Army  woman,  in  quaintly 
fashioned  black  gown  and  poke-bonnet 
tied  down  with  a  red  ribbon,  with  a 
bundle   of   tracts   under    her    arm,   which 


AT    IIAWOKTII.  163 

she  proceeded  to  distribute,  or  tried  to. 
There  was  much  good-humoured  jesting 
and  coarse  laughter,  in  which  she  joined 
as  heartily  as  they  ;  but  not  a  man  took 
one  of  the  little  pamphlets.  Soon  another 
"hallelujah  lassie"  from  the  barracks  be- 
low the  village  joined  her ;  and  they  went 
on  their  way,  bandying  jokes  the  while 
with  the  men  they  left  behind  them. 

Yet  I  heard  afterwards  that  the  Salvation 
Army  had  done  great  good  in  Haworth. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  gainsay  it. 

Diagonally  across  from  our  window,  on 
a  long  flight  of  stone  steps  leading  up  to 
what  we  took  to  be  a  school-house,  half  a 
dozen  children  in  wooden  shoes,  some  of 
them  mere  babies,  were  playing,  to  the 
imminent  peril  of  their  necks,  their  heels 
making  a  tremendous  clatter  as  they  raced 
up  and  down.  Still  farther  on  were  more 
steps  ;  and  on  the  corner  of  the  building 
to  which  they  led  was  the  sign  "Post- 
oiiice."     England  is  not  a  land  of  rapid 


164  AT    II A  WORTH. 

changes.  We  wondered  if  that  was  the 
very  spot  from  which  "Jane  Eyre"  went 
to  seek  publisher  after  i)ublisher,  and  to 
which,  after  weary  waiting,  flew  the  flocks 
of  white-winged  messengers  that  bore  to 
the  shy  and  sensitive  woman  the  story  of 
recognition  and  renown. 

"  Saint  Katharine,"  I  said,  "  we  will  set- 
tle that  point  to-morrow." 

And  we  did.  It  was  the  identical  place, 
—  a  humble  little  shop,  with  one  corner  set 
apart  for  the  public  service.  What  stories 
its  walls  could  have  told  if  they  had  had 
but  tongues ! 

But  this  is  a  digression.  Wliile  we  were 
still  at  the  window,  a  young  and  handsome 
cavalier  came  clattering  up  the  street,  rode 
straight  up  to  the  inn  door,  nothing  daunted 
by  the  spotless,  broad  stone  flagging,  and 
without  alighting  knocked  imperiously  with 
his  whip.  Out  came  the  bar-maid,  stal- 
wart, red-cheeked,  and  round-armed,  with 
a  pitcher  of  foaming  beer  and  a  mug  which 


AT    HAWORTII.  1 65 

he  held  while  she  filled  it  with  the  frothy- 
amber.  He  sipped  it  slowly,  smiling  and 
talking  the  while,  as  he  smoothed  his 
horse's  "chestnut  mane,"  then  dropped 
his  sixpence  into  her  outstretched  hand, 
and  galloped  away  in  the  deepening  twi- 
light. Was  he  one  of  Robin  Hood's  men, 
reappearing  in  this  matter-of-fact  century  ? 
For  Robin  Hood,  a  real  man  and  no  myth, 
lived  near  Liversedge ;  and  his  grave  is  still 
shown  to  the  curious. 

When  we  went  to  our  chamber.  Saint 
Katharine  eyed  the  high  bedstead  inquir- 
ingly. "The  question  that  disturbs  my 
mind  just  at  present  is  this,"  she  said; 
"how  are  you  ever  to  get  up  there?" 

"  Behold,  0  thou  of  little  faith  !  "  I  cried, 
drawing  the  drapery  aside,  and  displaying 
a  flight  of  carpeted  steps,  up  which  I  soon 
mounted  triumphantly,  to  be  lost  in  the 
abysses  of  a  huge  feather  bed. 

We  were  not  long  in  learning  why  our 
landlady  had  so  strongly  advised  us  to  take 


l66  AT    IIAWORTII. 

the  room  "overlooking  the  churchyard." 
Dead  men  tell  no  tales ;  but  the  men  of  tlie 
village,  vi^ho,  one  by  one,  dropped  into  the 
room  beneath  us  for  their  pipes  and  beer, 
and  perhaps  a  drop  of  something  stronger, 
told  many  ;  and  a  merry  racket  they  kept 
up  till  midnight.  All  night  we  heard  the 
church  clock  strike  the  quarter-hours,  and 
thought  of  other  ears  that  had  listened  to  it 
wearily  in  the  long  night  watches.  And  at 
early  dawn  the  clack,  clack,  clack,  of  the 
wooden  shoes  began  again. 

Need  it  be  said  that  we  thought,  too,  of 
the  gifted  and  misguided  Branwell  Bronte, 
who  had  sown  the  seeds  of  all  his  misfort- 
unes in  that  very  inn  ?  At  breakfast,  the 
maid  who  waited  kindly  hoped  the  ladies 
had  not  been  disturbed  by  the  noise.  Then, 
as  if  by  way  of  apology  for  the  carousal,  she 
added,  with  some  hesitation,  "  It  was  here, 
they  say,  that  Brawiwell,  as  they  call  him, 
used  to  come." 

Poor,   brilliant,    ambitious,    unfortunate 


AT    HAWORTII.  1 67 

boy,  —  his  very  name  mispronounced  under 
the  roof  to  which  he  had  been  so  often 
summoned,  that  his  wit  and  precocious 
cleverness  might  add  sparkle  and  fragrance 
to  the  wine !  In  what  seemed  to  be  a  sort 
of  state  apartment,  back  of  the  one  under 
ours,  we  were  shown  an  odd,  three-cornered 
chair,  in  which  he  was  wont  to  sit  enthroned 
as  king  of  the  revels. 

After  breakfast  we  sallied  forth  on  a 
voyage  of  discovery.  Just  below  the  sharp 
curve  in  the  street  we  had  noticed  a  small 
stationer's  shop,  in  the  window  of  which 
was  the  familiar  photograph  of  Charlotte 
Bront6;  and  thither  we  went. 

"Eobinson  Brown"  was  the  name  over 
the  door.  Might  he  not  be  kith  or  kin  to 
that  very  Martha  Brown  who  was  for  so 
many  years  poor  old  Tabby's  faithful  assist- 
ant, and  who.  Miss  Bronte  herself  bearing 
witness,  "waited  very  nicely"  when  the 
Bishop  of  Ripon  made  his  memorable  visit 
to  the  Haworth  parsonage  ? 


l68  AT    IIAWORTII. 

Behind  the  counter  we  found  an  exceed- 
ingly pretty  young  girl,  with  an  abundance 
of  wavy,  reddish  hair,  an  exquisite  complex- 
ion, and  laughing  blue  eyes.  Yes,  Robin- 
son Brown  was  her  brother;  and  Martha 
Brown,  who  died  only  two  or  three  years 
ago,  was  their  aunt.  Their  father,  who 
was  dead  also,  had  been  sexton  of  the 
church  for  forty  years,  during  the  whole 
incumbency  of  Mr.  Bronte. 

Was  her  mother  living  ?  and  would  it  be 
an  intrusion  if  we  went  to  see  her  ?  Yes 
and  no.  Her  mother  loved  to  talk  of  the 
old  days,  and  she  had  some  relics  of  Miss 
Charlotte  that  she  would  be  glad  to  show 
us. 

Not  far  from  the  Black  Bull  Inn,  one  of 
the  narrow  lanes  makes  a  swift  descent 
Half-way  down  it,  we  came  to  a  little,  low 
house,  quite  on  a  level  with  the  street.  Xot 
even  a  door-step  intervened.  Over  the  door 
an  inscription  was  rudely  hewn  in  the  stone 
casing,  after  this  fashion  :  — 


AT    HAWORTH.  1 69 

"I.  S. A.S. 

1    G  7    1," 

which,  being  interpreted,  means,  "Is  as  it 
was  in  1671."  Lifting  the  black  knocker, 
we  were  soon  admitted,  and  led  through  a 
small  passageway,  carpeted  with  oil-cloth, 
into  a  large  and  comfortable  room,  as  neat 
as  wax,  the  stone  floor  being  scoured  to 
the  last  degree  of  whiteness.  It  was 
evidently  the  kitchen  and  living-room.  But 
there  were  in  it  two  or  three  pieces  of 
handsome  old  furniture,  dark,  lustrous, 
and  brass-handled.  There  were  some  pict- 
ures on  the  wall,  and  a  bird-cage  in  the 
white-curtained  window.  A  young  v/oman 
was  ironing  at  a  table  under  the  window; 
and  at  another  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
sat  Mrs.  Brown,  the  sexton's  widow,  on 
some  housewifely  task  intent.  She  was  a 
pleasant-faced,  elderly  woman  in  a  black 
cap.  The  merest  hint  of  our  reason  for 
seeking  her  insured  us  a  most  cordial 
welcome. 


1 70  AT    IIAWORTir. 

"Charlotte,"  she  said  to  the  ironing 
maiden,  "go  fetch  the  little  cradle." 

"Is  your  daughter  named  for  Miss 
Bronte?"  I  asked,  as  the  girl  disappeared. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  with  but  very- 
little  trace  of  the  peculiar  Yorkshire  dialect, 
her  daughters  having  none  of  it.  "  She 
wor  bom  just  a  month  after  Miss  Char- 
lotte died.  She  wor  very  fond  of  my 
children,  Miss  Charlotte  wor;  and,  when 
my  babies  wor  a  month  old,  she  would 
always  ha'  them  brought  up  to  the  house. 
Miss  Charlotte  wor  good.  So  wor  they  all, 
always  thinking  of  poor  folk,  and  trying 
to  help  them." 

Here  her  daughter  returned,  bringing  the 
"cradle "and  a  small  box.  The  former 
was  a  mere  toy, — a  little  wooden  cradle, 
from  which  the  head  was  broken,  in  which 
the  child  Charlotte  had  rocked  her  dollies, 
crooning  soft  lullabies,  no  doubt.  I  held 
it  in  my  hand  reverently.  No  fragment 
washed  ashore  from  the  sea  of  her  later  lit- 


AT    IIAWOIITII.  171 

erary  life,  no  relic  of  her  womanhood,  could 
have  brought  her  so  vividly  near.  And  was 
it  not  a  comfort  to  know,  by  ocular  and 
tangible  demonstration,  that  the  lonely, 
motherless  little  creatures  in  that  silent 
parsonage  had  had  dolls,  and  had  cuddled 
and  fondled  them  like  other  children? 
The  box  contained  a  few  odds  and  ends, 

—  ribbons  and  bits  of  lace  that  Charlotte 
had  worn,  with,  a  bow  from  her  last  bonnet, 

—  all  sacredly  treasured  by  Martha  Brown 
and  bequeathed  by  her  to  her  niece. 

The  story  of  the  Brontes,  as  we  heard  it 
that  day  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Brown,  was 
not  new.  She  told  us  little  that  we  did  not 
know  before.  But  it  is  one  thing  to  read 
that  story  as  one  reads  a  novel,  sitting  at 
one's  ease,  with  the  ocean  rolling  between 
us  and  Haworth,  and  quite  another  to 
hear  it  from  the  lips  of  a  humble,  faith- 
ful friend  in  the  very  room  where  the 
sisters  had  so  often  sat. 

"Oh,  that  you  were  a  stenographer  !  "  I 


172  AT    11 A  WORTH. 

whispered  to  Saint  Katharine.  As  the 
talk  went  on,  conventionalities  dropped 
away,  the  "Miss"  seemed  a  waste  of  time 
and  breath,  and  Mrs.  Brown  spoke  of 
plain   Charlotte  and  Emily   and  Anne. 

"They  do  say  now,"  she  continued, 
"that  literary  folk,  such  as  write  books 
themselves,  think  that  Emily  wor  as  much 
as  Charlotte,  an'  maybe  more.  But  you 
see  we  did  not  know  it.  Xobody  thought 
it  then.  Emily  had  a  very  mannish  mind, 
more  mannish  than  the  others.  She  kept 
herself  to  herself,  close  and  quiet;  but, 
when  you  could  once  get  at  her,  she  wor 
sfree  [as  free?]  and  frank  as  anybody. 
She  wor  shut  up,  you  might  say,  and 
silent.  She  could  not  talk  like  other  folk. 
A  great  worker  she  wor ;  and,  when  sore 
trouble  came,  the  worse  she  felt,  the 
harder  she  worked.  You  know  about 
Branwell  ?  That  wor  a  great  grief ;  but 
the  day  he  wor  buried  she  just  came  home 
and  took  off  her  black  bonnet  and  went 


AT    II A  WORTH.  1 73 

to  the  kitchen  to  help  old  Tabby  with  the 
dinner,  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Yet  it  wor  killing  her,  and  in  two  months 
she  died  herself.  She  would  not  have  a 
doctor,  though  a  blind  man  could  see  how 
it  wor  going;  and  she  would  get  up  and 
have  her  clothes  on,  and  do  her  work  till 
the  last  morning.  It  wor  dreadful  to 
see  her,  yet  none  could  say  a  word.  At 
the  very  last  she  whispered  to  Miss  Char- 
lotte that  she  might  send  for  the  doctor. 
But  it  wor  too  late.  She  went  out  like  a 
candle.  Very  soon  Anne  followed  her, 
and  there  wor  but  one  where  there  had 
been  three.  Yes,  my  husband  buried  them 
all,  every  one  of  them.  He  wor  sexton 
forty  year.  He  and  Branwell  were  great 
cronies.  That's  his  portrait."  And  she 
pointed  proudly  to  a  crude  oil  painting 
that  hung  behind  her,  stiff  and  woodeny 
enough,  yet  with  a  certain  air  of  individu- 
ality about  it  that  made  one  sure  it  was  a 
good  likeness.     "Branwell  painted  it." 


174  AT    II A  WORTH. 

Judicious  questioning  led  her  in  due  time 
to  Miss  Bronte's  betrothal  and  marriage.     . 

"  Mr.  Brontd  would  not  hear  to  it  at  first. 
He  wor  dead  against  it.  But  she  brought 
him  round  after  a  while.  It  wor  kept  very 
still,  and  it  wor  a  quiet  wedding.  Mr. 
Nichols  and  a  friend  o'  his  just  slipped 
across  the  fields  to  the  church,  when  no  one 
noticed  ;  and  Miss  Charlotte  she  put  on  her 
white  gown  and  bonnet  and  met  them 
there,  just  as  if  it  were  nothing  at  all." 

"She  did  not  go  through  that  little  gate 
and  down  the  path  through  the  graveyard,  I 
hope,"  I  said. 

"  Oh,  no  !  That  little  gate  wor  not  used 
except  for  the  burials.  They  wor  all  carried 
through  that  gate.  She  went  down  the  out- 
side path  by  the  wall.  Miss  "Wooler  wor 
with  her,  and  her  friend  Miss  Ellen.  At 
the  last  minute,  if  you  can  believe  it,  Mr. 
Bronte  would  not  go,  and  Miss  Wooler  had 
to  give  her  away.  Hardly  a  one  knew  what 
had  happened  till  they  came  out.    Then  she 


AT    HAWOKTII.  I  75 

had  a-hold  of  Mr.  Nichols'  arm.  They 
walked  that  way  up  to  the  parsonage  ;  and 
Miss  Charlotte  she  wor  smiling  and  wor 
quite  chatty,  they  said." 

Then  came  details,  too  personal  and  too 
sacred  to  be  recorded  here,  of  the  short, 
blissful  wedded  life,  the  swift  approach  of 
motherhood,  the  months  of  anguish,  the 
untimely  death. 

"  When  her  father  saw  her  lying  dead," 
she  went  on,  ' '  he  said  :  '  I  want  you  all  to 
know  that  this  was  why  I  opposed  the  mar- 
riage. She  was  like  her  mother.  I  knew 
she  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  the  ills 
of  matrimony.'  "  (The  chances  are  that 
he  used  the  word  "  maternity  "  rather  than 
"matrimony."  But  I  choose  to  quote  liter- 
ally.) "  Mr.  Bront6  wor  a  good  one,"  she 
added  thoughtfully. 

"  How  about  the  pistol  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  wor  not  true,"  she  answered  very 
decidedly.  "Many  a  thing  wor  said  that 
never  happened  about  the  pistol  (though  he 


176  AT    IIAWORTII. 

may  well  have  fired  one,  now  and  again, 
like  any  other  man)  and  the  cutting  up  of 
the  wife's  silk  dress  and  the  spoiling  of  the 
children's  gay  shoes.  But  these  things  wor 
not  told  till  the  children  were  all  dead  and 
buried." 

A  glance  at  the  clock  showed  that  time 
was  flying.  We  bade  Charlotte  Bront6 
Brown  and  her  mother  good-by,  and  made 
our  way  to  the  church.  Either  there  is  ex- 
ceptional narrowness  on  the  part  of  the  Ha- 
worth  people,  or  there  has  been  great  want 
of  tact  and  good  management  on  the  part 
of  the  powers  that  be.  Every  stone  in  the 
old  church  seems  to  have  been  sacred  in  the 
eyes  of  those  who  were  born,  as  were  their 
ancestors  for  many  a  generation,  within 
its  shadow.  To  them  the  new  church  is  not 
the  loyal  and  natural  successor  of  the  old, 
but  its  uprooter  and  supplanter.  The  king 
is  dead,  and  they  cannot  yet  cry,  "Long 
live  the  king  !  "  This  feeling  has  been  in- 
tensified by  the  removal,  which  was  doubt- 


AT    nAWOIlTH.  177 

less  necessary,  of  the  bodies  of  Charlotte 
and  her  kin  from  the  spot  where  they  were 
first  interred. 

"  There  are  folk  who  would  be  glad  to 
sweep  every  vestige  of  the  Brontes  off  the 
face  of  earth,"  said  an  old  man,  with  con- 
centrated bitterness  of  expression.  "They 
have  scattered  their  very  bones." 

On  the  wall  of  the  new  church  there  is  a 
small  tablet,  with  names  and  dates ;  and 
there  is  a  memorial  window,  the  gift  of  an 
American,  we  were  told,  "to  the  glory  of 
God,  and  in  pleasant  memory  of  Charlotte 
Bronte." 

We  went  into  the  churchyard  again,  to 
look  at  the  little  private  gate  through  which 
the  dead  of  the  Bronte  family  had  been 
borne  to  their  graves.  We  cast  another 
glance  at  the  parsonage  windows,  but  we 
did  not  venture  to  knock  at  the  closed  door. 
After  being  told  a  dozen  times,  by  as  many 
different  persons,  that  ungracious  repulse 
was  certain,  we  were  not  brave  enough  to 


178  AT    IIAWORTII. 

take  the  risk.  And  we  have  been  sorry 
for  our  cowardice  ever  since  ! 

When,  at  tlie  close  of  our  visit  to  Ha- 
worth,  we  reached  the  station,  we  found  we 
had  still  half  an  hour  to  spare.  A  fine- 
looking,  elderly  man,  a  good  specimen  of  a 
Yorkshire  yeoman,  was  sitting  on  a  bench 
outside,  waiting  like  ourselves  for  the  train. 
We  asked  a  question  or  two  about  new  Ha^- 
worth,  and  he  one  or  two  about  America, 
and  we  were  friends  at  once. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  wor  born  about  here. 
I  knew  the  Brontes  well.  I  saw  Miss 
Charlotte  very  often,  almost  every  day. 
She  wor  nothing  to  look  at.  She  wor  a 
little  thing,  little  and  shy.  She  did  not  lift 
up  her  eyes.  She  wor  quiet  and  kept  out  o' 
the  way.  They  wor  all  great," — which 
seems  to  be  the  Ha  worth  word  for  "gifted," 
—  "all  great,  every  one  of  them.  But,  yo' 
see,  we  did  not  know  it  till  they  wor  dead. 
That  wor  it."  And  then  he  repeated,  with 
a  slow  shake  of  the  head,  "  That  wor  it ;  we 


AT    HA  WORTH.  1 79 

did  not  know  it  till  they  wor  dead."  Alas  ! 
how  often  a  wider  world  than  that  of  this 
Yorkshire  town  has  been  compelled  to  make 
the  same  sad  confession  !  It  took  but  a 
word  now  and  then  to  draw  him  out.  ' '  Yes, 
we  read  the  books,  here  in  Yorkshire ;  and 
we  liked  them.  Good  they  wor.  But  we 
had  no  idea  who  wrote  them.  Bless  yo', 
nobody  ever  thought  she  wor  Currer  Bell !  — 
she  that  wor  so  little  and  shy  !  There  wor 
one  John  Greenwood.  He  kep'  a  little  shop 
where  they  used  to  get  their  paper  to  write 
on.  He  wor  too  poor  to  keep  a  stock  on 
hand ;  and  many's  the  time,  when  they 
wanted  it  and  he  wor  out,  he  would  walk 
to  Keithley  for  it,  and  be  back  afore  night. 
Alway  and  always  he  wor  wondering  what 
the  young  leddies  at  the  parsonage  did  wi' 
so  much  paper.  But,  bless  my  soul !  John 
Greenwood  never  thought  no  more'n  the 
rest  of  us  that  they  were  writing  hooks  I 
Yo'  see,  we  did  not  know.    That  wor  it." 


vn. 

FROM  THE  BOKDER  TO  INVER- 
NESS. 

TT  is  the  little  things,  the  trifles  light  as 
air,  of  which  guide-books  make  no 
note,  the  unexpected  recognitions,  the 
quaint  surprises,  that  give  its  greatest 
charm  to  travel.  We  were  bending  our 
way  northward,  and  had  taken  the  train, 
as  we  supposed,  for  Melrose,  when  to  our 
chagrin  we  found  we  could  go  no  farther 
that  night  than  Kelso.  The  town  was 
quite  unknown  to  us.  Neither  of  our  three 
guide-books  so  much  as  mentioned  it.  We 
searched  the  maps,  and  found  a  tiny  cir- 
clet, about  half-way  between  Berwick-on- 
Tweed  and  the  place  of  our  destination. 
What  manner  of  place  was  it  ?  No  one 
seemed  able  to  enlighten  our  ignorance. 
"Primitive  enough,  no  doubt,"  said  one 
i8o 


FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    IXVERNESS.      l8l 

of  US,  as  she  looked  out  of  the  car  win- 
dow with  a  disconsolate  air.  "  But  I 
suppose  we  can  find  beds,  and  perhaps 
bannocks.  Bannocks  are  the  proper  thing 
in  Scotland,  are  they  not?" 

The  truth  was,  we  had  set  our  hearts 
on  spending  our  first  night  '-Over  the 
Border  "  at  Melrose  ;  and  the  change  of 
plan  was  not  quite  satisfactory. 

But  there  was  little  time  for  doubt  or 
questioning.  As  we  sped  towards  the 
border,  all  the  hills  and  streams  found 
voices,  and  every  crag  had  some  tale  of 
the  past  to  tell.  The  very  names  were 
suggestive.  Flying  along  in  the  gloaming, 
we  stopped  for  an  instant  at  —  was  it 
"  Xorham,"  the  name  that  caught  my  eye 
as  we  swept  past  the  station  ?  —  And  why 
should  a  swift  vision  out  of  the  old  romances 
—  a  vision  of  mail-clad  knights  and  haughty 
barons  —  rise  before  me  at  that  word  ? 

It  all  came  to  me  presently.  "  Why,  this 
is  Norliam  ! "  I  cried  excitedly.     "Don't 


l82     FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

you  remember?  Norham,  where  Edward  I. 
met  the  Lords  of  Scotland  when  they  made 
him  arbitrator  between  Robert  the  Bruce 
and  false  John  Baliol." 

Just  at  that  moment,  the  guard,  running 
along  on  the  platform  outside,  spoke 
through  the  open  window.  "Ladies,"  he 
said,  touching  his  cap,  ' '  this  place  was  cel- 
ebrated in  the  border  wars.  We  shall  pass 
the  ruins  of  Norham  Castle  presently." 

Soon  we  saw  it  to  the  right  of  us,  loom- 
ing up  in  its  hoary  grandeur  like  a  ghost 
in  the  dim  twilight. 

We  rolled  into  Kelso,  at  last.  Even  our 
friendly  guard  was  as  ignorant  as  other 
folk  —  as  ignorant  as  railroad  officials  and 
hotel  clerks  sometimes  are,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  water.  He  "had  never  stopped 
at  Kelso."  He  "didn't  know  the  place." 
Was  there  a  good  hotel  there  ?  Indeed,  he 
could  n't  say,  but  it  seemed  to  him  he  had 
"heard  mention  of  an  inn  called  The 
Crossed  Keys." 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   183 

"That  sounds  rather  meclicieval  and  ro- 
mantic," whispered  Saint  Katharine.  "Do 
you  suppose  there  is  a  dungeon  under  tlie 
coffee-room?"  Gathering  up  our  belong- 
ings, we  looked  about  in  quest  of  adven- 
tures and  a  porter. 

Alas  !  a  most  commonplace  omnibus 
awaited  us.  It  had  not  even  the  musty 
odour  of  antiquity  to  redeem  it,  but  quite 
dazzled  our  eyes  with  its  unaccustomed 
cleanliness  and  brilliancy,  being  by  all 
odds  the  finest  carryall  we  had  seen 
since  we   left  London. 

It  takes  but  little  to  amuse  light-hearted 
travellers,  and  we  laughed  heartily  at  our 
own  three  selves  (for  there  were  three  of 
us  this  time)  as  we  presently  emerged 
into  a  large,  well-paved,  and  well-lighted 
market-place,  on  one  side  of  which  stood 
The  Crossed  Keys,  bearing  on  its  heavy 
door  the  iron  symbols  of  guardianship. 
Well  might  we  laugh  at  the  erroneous 
impression  we  had  formed  of  the  beauti- 


l84  FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS. 

ful  town  of  Kelso,  which  boasts  an  ancient 
abbey  of  its  own ;  Kelso,  with  its  fine 
roads,  its  graceful  bridges,  its  museum 
and  library,  and  its  background  of  wooded 
hills  with  the  three  Eildon  peaks  in  the 
distance. 

As  for  The  Crossed  Keys,  however,  it 
was  primitive  enough  to  be  interesting ; 
even  though  our  party  of  three  voted  that 
the  breakfast  served  us  the  next  morning 
in  our  pleasant  parlour,  by  a  blue-eyed 
young  Scotchman,  was  the  best  we  had 
tasted   on  British  soil. 

There  was  a  strange  exhilaration  in  the 
atmosphere  that  August  morning.  Or 
was  it  from  within  ?  —  a  spiritual  essence 
stronger  than  wine.  Did  not  the  very 
air  we  breathed  with  such  delight  stir  the 
ivies  of  Melrose,  and  Abbotsford,  and 
Dry  burgh  ? 

It  was  but  a  dozen  miles  or  so  to  St. 
Boswell's,  whither  we  went  by  rail  ;  and 
there  took  a  carriage  for  the  short  two- 


mile  drive  to  Dryburgli.  Alighting  on 
the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  we  crossed  the 
river  on  a  very  long,  narrow,  swaying 
foot-bridge,  under  whose  piers  two  young 
men  in  tourist  costumes  were  gravely 
fishing.  It  was  quite  safe,  with  iron 
railings,  and  to  fall  would  have  been  im- 
possible. But  the  wind  blew  strongly, 
and  the  procedure  was  a  good  deal  like 
walking  the  deck  in  a  gale.  Once  over, 
however,  we  went  on,  through  green  and 
winding  ways,  to  the  first  lodge,  where  we 
stopped  to  pay  toll — "tuppence" — for 
crossing  the  bridge,  and  to  receive  direc- 
tions for  finding  the  abbey. 

One  of  us  was  slightly  indisposed  that 
morning,  in  spite  of  the  delicious  air  ;  and 
crossing  that  swaying  bridge  had  not 
helped  the  matter.  She  looked  ready  to 
commit  the  crime  of  fainting.  What  was 
to  be  done  ?  For  we  had  already  left  the 
lodge  well  behind  us. 

Fortunately  a  little,  low  cottage  sprang 


l86     FROM    TIIK    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

up  out  of  the  shadows  by  the  wayside, 
and  we  concluded  to  make  an  informal 
morning  call.  It  was  whitewashed  on  the 
outside,  with  scarlet  geraniums  blooming 
in  the  small  windows,  but  inside  it  was 
brown  and  Rembrandtish  in  tone. 

"  Isn't  it  just  like  a  picture  ?  "  whispered 
one  of  us,  as  we  took  a  quiet  survey  be- 
fore entering. 

A  wood  lire  burned  in  the  blackened  fire- 
place, the  sticks  resting  on  large  iron  fire- 
dogs.  On  one  side  were  the  small-paned 
windows,  with  deep  window-sills  ;  on  the 
other,  bunks  were  built  into  the  wall,  one 
above  another,  sleeping  accommodations 
for  the  family. 

As  we  appeared  in  the  narrow  doorway, 
a  tall,  angular  woman,  with  a  complexion 
like  leather,  and  a  wide-bordered  cap  sur- 
mounting the  black  coil  of  her  hair,  came 
forward  to  receive  us.  Taking  in  the 
situation  at  a  glance,  she  cried  hospitably, 
while  drawing  forth  a  rocking  chair,  "Oh, 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  IXVERXESS.   1 87 

coom  in,  coom  in  !  Let  the  leddy  coom 
right  in  !  There's  nane  hut  the  bairns  in 
here  the  morn." 

One  of  the  "  bairns,"  a  little,  red-cheeked, 
dark-eyed  boy  about  five  years  old,  was 
curled  up  in  a  great  arm-chair,  on  a  many- 
coloured  patchwork  cushion,  intently  watch- 
ing the  boiling  of  a  pot  over  the  fire.  He 
looked  at  us  curiously,  but  not  shyly,  lifted 
his  hand,  smiled,  and  said  something  in 
an  unknown  tongue  —  courteous  words  of 
greeting,  no  doubt.  Children  soon  catch 
the  spirit  of  their  elders ;  and  this  little 
fellow's  mother  could  not  have  been  more 
gracious,  or  more  self-respecting,  if  she 
had  been  Duchess  of  Buccleugh. 

Our  invalid  was  soon  conducted  upstairs 
into  a  low,  wide  room,  with  brown  rafters, 
filled  with  all  sorts  of  household  belongings 
—  the  odds  and  ends  of  many  generations. 
There  she  was  left  to  herself  for  half  an 
hour,  while  the  rest  of  us  made  friends 
with  the  mother  and  her  bairns.     The  ex- 


165  FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS. 

perience  taught  us  one  fact  not  mentioned 
in  the  guide-books ;  viz. ,  that  a  Scotch 
peasant-woman  may  have  a  guest-chamber 
in  her  small  cottage,  and  may  gently  de- 
cline payment  from  a  stranger  for  the  use 
thereof. 

In  due  time  we  passed  the  second  lodge, 
entered  our  names  in  the  visitors'  book, 
paid  our  sixpences,  and  made  our  way 
down  the  narrow,  ivy-hedged  lane  that 
leads  to  the  abbey,  now  so  picturesque 
in  ruinous  solitude.  The  ruin  is  indeed 
almost  complete.  We  did  not  try  to  trace 
out  nave,  or  choir,  or  transept,  but  sat 
there  in  the  sweet  morning  stillness,  hear- 
ing the  birds  sing  and  communing  with  tree 
and  flower  till  we  were  fully  rested. 

Then  we  sought  St.  Mary's  aisle  in  what 
was  once  the  north  transept  of  a  stately 
pile,  but  which  the  world  hardly  knows 
of  now  save  as  the  burial-place  of  Walter 
Scott.  There  he  sleeps,  with  his  wife  and 
son  by  his  side,  and  Lockhart  at  his  feet. 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   1 89 

An  iron  railing  prevents  intrusion  upon 
the  sacred  spot ;  but  seeing  some  pebbles 
lying  on  the  pavement  within,  I  put  my 
hand  reverently  through  the  grating  and 
gathered  them  up  for  friends  across  the 
sea  v?ho  would,  I  well  knew,  prize  them 
above  rubies. 

The  works  of  men's  hands,  "yea,  all  of 
them  shall  wax  old  like  a  garment, ' '  Yet 
near  the  entrance  to  the  abbey  stands  a 
yew-tree,  still  hale  and  green  in  its  serene 
old  age ;  a  yew-tree  that  is  older  than  the 
abbey  itself.  What  stories  could  it  not 
tell  if  it  had  but  a  tongue  to  speak  ! 

Abbotsford  is  too  well  known  to  warrant 
description  here.  Sulfice  it  to  say  that  we 
were  permitted  to  wander  at  will  through 
the  fair  chambers  that  are  still  haunted 
by  the  master's  presence,  and  through  the 
grounds  and  gardens  that  he  planted.  We 
paused  for  a  moment  at  the  monument 
erected  to  the  memory  of  the  "  twa  dogs," 
Maida  and  Luf  a  ;  and  by  the  half -finished 


IQO      FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

statue  of  Maurice,  the  exciseman  in  "Rob 
Roy."  In  the  armoury,  we  lingered  long 
over  the  curious  relics  so  associated  with 
the  works  of  their  former  owner,  and  so 
indicative  of  his  tastes  and  character  — 
among  them  EoTd  Roy's  gun,  pouch,  and 
cap ;  the  keys  of  the  Heart  of  Midlothian, 
and  some  strands  of  golden  hair  cut  from 
the  head  of  Bonnie  Prince  Charlie.  In  a 
little  octagon  recess  was  the  death  mask. 

Perhaps  what  will  be  remembered  long- 
est is  the  frieze  in  the  hall  entrance,  formed 
wholly  of  the  shields  and  armorial  bearings 
of  the  Scottish  clans,  with  this  inscription 
running  underneath  :  — 

"These  be  the  Coat  Armouries  of  ye 
Clanuis  and  men  of  name  quha  keepit  ye 
Scottish  Marches  in  ye  days  of  auld.  They 
were  worthie  in  their  tyme,  and  in  their 
defens,  God  thaim  defended." 

The  drive  to  Melrose  in  the  sunny  after- 
noon was  enchanting  as  we  followed  the 
winding  Tweed  round  the  base  of  the  Eil- 


FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS.      I9I 

don  Hills,  three  rounded  cones,  brown  and 
purple  with  heather.  "VYe  looked  at  them 
curiously,  remembering  how  Michael,  the 
Wizard,  had  by  his  dark  magic  "  cleft 
Eildon  Hill  in  three."  It  was  a  fair  pict- 
ure that  stamped  itself  upon  our  memories 
that  day,  —  the  clear  blue  sky,  the  bright 
sunshine,  the  sparkling  river,  the  pictur- 
esque hills,  and  at  their  feet,  half  buried 
in  foliage,  the  country-seat  of  the  Duke  of 
Buccleugh  —  his  "hunting-box,"  so  called, 
—  the  box  being  large  enough  to  accommo- 
date a  hundred  guests. 

The  Abbey  Inn  is  at  the  very  gate  of  the 
abbey;  not  a  stone's  throw  off.  Indeed, 
one  can  hardly  help  believing  that  it  en- 
croaches upon  the  site  of  the  ancient  nave. 
It  is  a  pity  that  Melrose  does  not  stand  like 
Fountains  Abbey,  isolated  in  lonely  grand- 
eur. But  as  imagination  takes  hold  of  and 
reclothes  and  repeoples  the  majestic  ruin, 
one  has  no  room  for  regrets  of  any  kind. 
The  historic  and  poetic  associations  are  so 


192   FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS. 

rich  that  they  become  overpowering.  To 
stand  where  the  heart  of  the  Bruce  lies 
buried,  on  the  very  spot  where  the  high 
altar  once  lifted  its  imposing  splendour,  all 
bathed  in  the  glorious,  many-coloured  light 
that  streamed  in  through  the  'flamboyant 
traceries  of  that  marvellously  beautiful  east- 
ern window,  and  then  to  lift  one's  eyes 
and  see,  not  six  feet  off,  the  tomb  of  the 
Douglases,  where  lies  the  Douglas  whom 
Harry  Hotspur  slew  at  Otterburn,  is  surely 
enough  to  make  the  most  sluggish  heart 
beat  faster  than  its  wont.  Here,  as  every- 
where in  the  old  world,  it  is  less  the  thing 
seen  than  the  thing  suggested  that  stirs 
one. 

Melrose  is  beyond  description.  Surelj' 
its  arches  were  bent,  and  its  mighty  col- 
umns—  bundles  of  lances  bound  together 
by  garlands  —  were  reared  in  days  when 
time  was  naught  and  human  endeavour  was 
of  small  moment.  What  manner  of  men 
were  they  —  these  builders  in  what  we  are 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   1 93 

pleased  to  call  the  ''dark  ages"?  Dark 
perhaps,  because  the  morning  of  our  boasted 
civilization  had  not  yet  dawned.  The  deli- 
cacy and  grace  of  the  carvings,  whether  in 
the  frieze  of  the  cloisters,  or  in  the  capitals 
of  the  pillars,  the  corbels,  and  the  keystones 
of  the  roof,  are  incomparable.  Rose  and 
lily,  thistle,  thorn,  and  fern,  kale  and  oak 
leaves,  with  countless  other  forms  of  un- 
approachable loveliness,  are  reproduced  in 
the  solid  stone  with  a  fidelity  to  nature 
that  takes  one's  breath  away.  Just  above 
the  foliated  capital  of  the  centre  pillar  in 
the  north  transept,  is  carved  a  hand  hold- 
ing in  its  slender  fingers  a  few  flowers.  Of 
this  hand  Lockh  art  says  that  "were  it  cut 
off  and  placed  with  the  Elgin  marbles,  it 
would  be  kissed  by  the  cognoscenti  as  one 
of  the  finest  of  them  all." 

Passing  out  by  the  grand  south  entrance, 

we  found  ourselves  in  the  graveyard,  from 

the  southeast  corner  of  which  the  best  view 

of  the  building  as  a  whole  is  to  be  obtained. 

o 


194      FliOM    THE    IJORDEK    TO    INVERNESS. 

At  this  point  the  eye  takes  in  at  once  the 
singular  beauty  of  the  flying  buttresses,  the 
glorious  arches,  the  grand  east  window, 
and  the  central  tower. 

Midway  across  this  field  of  the  dead 
we  found  a  sunken  grave,  marked  by  a 
little  red  stone  which  bore  this  singular 
inscription :  — 

"  The  Earth  goeth  on  the  Earth 

Glistering  like  gold ; 
The  Earth  goeth  to  the  Earth 

Sooner  than  it  wold  ; 
The  Earth  builds  on  the  Earth 

Castles  and  towers ; 
The  Earth  says  to  the  Earth 

All  shall  be  ours." 

The  stone  is  very  old.  On  the  other  side 
was  the  name  of  the  silent  sleeper,  "Jane 
Ramsey,"  and  the  remains  of  a  date  that 
time  had  blotted  out.  I  fancied  her  a 
young  girl  ;  for  did  not  the  stone  tell  us 
dust  had  returned  to  dust  "  sooner  than  it 
wold"?     Unfortunately   for    this    theory, 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   I95 

however,  the  old  seem,  as  a  rule,  quite  as 
anxious  to  live  as  are  their  grandchildren. 

Not  far  from  "Jane  "  lies  Thomas  Pur- 
die,  "  Wood  Forester  at  Abbotsford  "  ;  and 
the  stone  is  erected  in  "grateful  remem- 
brance" of  an  old  servant,  "by  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  Bart." 

We  lingered  long  in  the  dim  twilight, 
feeling  rather  than  seeing  the  witchery  of 
the  place,  the  magic,  the  beauty  of  it  all. 
Then  we  went  to  bed,  but  not  to  sleep. 
For  who  could  sleep  beneath  the  towers  of 
Melrose,  when  he  knew  the  moon  would 
rise  about  midnight  ? 

My  room  overlooked  the  abbey  —  was 
almost  in  it,  in  fact.  My  bed  was  in  front 
of  the  window,  and  I  had  only  to  lift  the 
curtain  to  behold  the  glorious  pageant  as 
the  full  moon  slowly  rose,  flooding  choir  and 
chancel,  nave  and  cloister,  with  a  clear 
white  light  that  was  almost  like  day. 

**  The  broken  arches  were  black  in  night, 
And  each  shafted  oriel  Khmmered  white, 


196      FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

"Where  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streamed  on  the  ruined  central  tower." 

As  I  gazed,  shadowy  figures  seemed  to 
glide  from  column  to  column,  from  arch  to 
arch.  Cowled  monks  stole  down  the  old 
staircase;  they  emerged  from  the  "steel- 
clenched  postern  door,"  they  knelt  before 
the  high  altar.  Is  that  Father  Eustacious, 
the  last  abbot  of  St.  Mary's  ?  Is  the  place 
alive  again  with  warmth  and  colour,  the 
breath  of  incense,  the  stately  splendour  of 
solemn  ceremonials  ? 

Hark  !  a  tolling  bell  strikes  the  hours,  — 
a  weird,  unearthly  sound  that  sends  a  shiver 
through  the  soul.  It  is  the  very  bell  that 
called  to  prayer  four  centuries  ago. 

Many  good  things  have  come  into  my 
life,  but  I  count  among  the  best  of  them 
those  midnight,  moonlit  hours  at  Melrose. 

Then  followed  rare,  enchanted  weeks  in 
Edinboro'  the  Proud,  Edinboro'  the  Beauti- 
ful. The  tourist,  and  there  is  more  than 
one,  who  says  she  should  not  be  proud 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   1 97 

and  is  not  beautiful,  has  been  most  unfor- 
tunate. Either  he  was  soul-sick,  or  body- 
sick,  or  he  had  atrocious  weather,  or  he 
did  not  stay  long  enough  for  the  fair  city 
to  reveal  her  charms  to  him. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  how  your  countrymen 
and  countrywomen,  for  the  most  part,  O.o 
Edinboro'  ?  "  asked  a  stately  Scotch  matron 
with  laughter  in  her  eye  and  voice.  "  Very 
well  !  They  alight  at  the  station.  They 
get  into  cabs  —  one  cab,  two  cabs,  fifty 
cabs,  according  to  the  size  of  the  party. 
They  drive  through  a  few  streets  ;  they  go 
up  to  the  castle,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye  are  whisked  from  dungeon  to  tower. 
Into  the  cabs  again,  and  down  High  Street 
and  the  Canongate  to  Holyrood.  They 
glance  at  St.  Giles,  and  the  Tolbooth. 
They  look  up  at  Arthur's  Seat,  and  down 
from  Calton  Hill  to  the  Forth.  They  stop 
a  minute  at  the  Scott  monument.  They 
run  into  a  shop  and  buy  a  pebble,  or  a 
cairngorm.     Then  to  the  station  again,  and 


198      FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

off  they  whirl.  They  have  seen  Edinboro'. 
Did  I  tell  you  about  the  young  man  who 
went  to  Kosslyn  ?  No  ?  Very  well,  then. 
He  drove  out  with  a  party  of  friends, 
and  when  they  got  to  the  chapel  actually 
refused  to  leave  the  carriage.  '  Why 
should  he  alight  ? '  he  asked.  '  He  didn't 
come  all  the  way  to  Europe  to  see  a 
parcel  of  old  ruins, '  —  not  having  studied 
his  little  red  book  enough  to  show  that 
Rosslyn  was  not  a  ruin.  INIuch  good  travel 
does  such  folk,"  she  added  impatiently. 
"Why  doesn't  Eate  give  their  chance  to 
the  other  sort  ?  " 

And  remembering  sundry  appreciative 
souls  who  would  give  more  than  the  half  of 
their  respective  kingdoms  for  the  "  chance  " 
this  callow  youth  was  wasting,  my  heart 
echoed  the  question. 

But  the  charmed  days  could  not  last. 
We  had  done  all  the  orthodox  things  and 
many  that  were  not  orthodox.  We  had 
not  only  seen   that  grand  old  pile  of  em- 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   I99 

bodied  history  yclept  the  Castle,  but  we  had 
dreamed  of  it,  sleeping  in  its  hoary  sha.dow, 
as  it  were,  night  after  night.  We  had  trod- 
den the  storied  ways  of  beautiful  Holyrood. 
We  had  stood  in  the  window  from  which 
John  Knox  thundered  his  anathemas.  We 
had  climbed  Salisbury  Craig,  and,  sighing 
because  Arthur's  Seat  —  its  crest,  that  is  — 
was  too  high  for  us  and  we  could  not  at- 
tain unto  it,  we  had  looked  down  on  the 
towered  and  turreted  city  sleeping  at  our 
feet,  and  afar  off  beyond  Leith  to  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Forth.  Did  we  not  become 
familiar  with  "the  hills  beyond  Pent- 
land  "  ?  Did  we  not  see  the  fishwives  of 
Newhaven  ?  And  on  one  never-to-be-for- 
gotten day,  we  followed  the  serpentine 
windmgs  of  the  Firth  of  Forth,  past  fishing 
villages  and  hamlets  sleeping  in  the  sun  ; 
past  crag  and  cairn,  crumbling  tower,  ivied 
ruin,  and  lofty  monument ;  past  quiet 
homes,  half  hidden  under  sheltering  trees  ; 
past  stately  castles  and  historic  piles  ;  past 


200   FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS. 

church  and  abbey,  school  and  hospital,  until 
at  length,  as  we  neared  Stirling,  so  swiftly 
did  the  steamer  wheel  and  veer  in  its  tortu- 
ous channel  that  the  castle  on  one  storied 
height  and  the  Wallace  monument  on 
another  seemed  playing  hide-and-seek  with 
us,  and  we  were  fain  to  believe  there  were 
two  castles  and  two  monuments. 

But  why  go  on  with  the  inventory  ? 
Wherever  we  went,  whatever  we  saw  or 
did,  one  figure  walked  beside  us  by  night 
and  by  day.  Walter  Scott  is  the  soul 
of  Edinboro'.  His  presence  pervades  the 
streets  and  the  very  air.  It  is  fitting  that, 
as  the  years  go  hy,  he  should  sit  upon  his 
marble  throne,  under  that  canopy  of  carven 
stone,  with  the  creations  of  his  genius  above 
and  around  him  as  a  holy  guard,  in  the 
very  heart  of  the  city  of  his  love.  You  see 
his  face  everywhere.  Indeed  the  face  of 
the  queen  is  not  more  familiar  to  the  peo- 
ple of  London  than  is  that  of  Walter  Scott 
to  the  people  of  Edinboro'. 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   201 

On  that  last  morning  we  went  again  up 
Castle  Street  to  Number  Thirty-nine,  —  the 
home  of  the  magician  for  twenty -six  years ; 
the  home  of  his  prime,  where  in  one  single 
year  he  wrote  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak,"  "  Quen- 
tin  Durward,"  and  "St.  Eonan's  Well." 
Number  One,  North  Charlotte  Street,  was  not 
far  off,  the  occasional  home  of  "Pet  Marjo- 
rie,"  from  whence  she  came  to  the  Twelfth 
Night  supper  at  Castle  Street,  brought  in  the 
sedan  chair  by  Duncan  Roy  and  Tougald. 
It  was  easy  to  see  it  all  —  the  little  seven- 
year-old  darling,  "all  in  white,  and  her 
eyes  gleaming,  and  Scott  bending  over  her 
in  ecstasy."  It  required  no  great  stretch 
of  fancy  to  see  the  opening  of  the  "  big  ha' 
door,"  and  to  hear  a  gay  voice  cry,  "  I  can 
make  nothing  of  '  Waverley  '  to-day.  I'll 
awa'  to  Marjorie.  Come  wi'  me,  Maida,  you 
thief,"  as  the  tall  figure  strode  down  the 
street  with  a  shepherd's  plaid  over  its 
shoulder. 

It  was  in  the  garden  back  of  the  Castle 


202   FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS. 

Street  house  that  poor  faithful  Camp  was 
buried,  the  turf  above  him  smoothed  by  his 
master's  own  hand. 

It  is  the  fashion  in  some  quarters  to  say 
that  the  world  has  outgrown  the  author  of 
"Waverley,"  that  "nobody  reads  him." 
Perhaps  so,  —  though  the  statistics  of  pub- 
lic libraries  do  not  attest  this.  But  he  lives 
and  breathes  in  Scotland.  You  can  scarcely 
say  of  him  that  "  being  dead  he  yet  speak- 
eth";  for  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  him 
as  dead,  even  though  he  has  every  mountain 
for  a  monument. 

Saint  Katharine  and  I  resolved  ourselves 
into  a  committee  of  two.  Should  we  go  up 
to  Inverness  "  first  class,"  or  "second"? 
The  committee  referred  the  question  to  the 
stately  matron  and  her  fair  daughters.. 
"  You  would  better  go  first  class,"  was  the 
decision.  "  It  is  a  long,  hard  journey  up  to 
Inverness,  very  tiresome  if  taken  in  one 
day." 

The  British  idea  of  distance  is  very  amus- 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  INVERNESS.   203 

ing  to  an  American.  A  trip  of  six  or  eight 
hours  is  a  "long,  hard  journey,"  to  be 
attempted  only  under  protest,  and  with 
more  impedimenta  in  the  shape  of  wraps, 
rugs,  and  air  cushions,  than  would  suffice 
for  an  outing  across  the  continent  from 
Xew  York  to  San  Francisco.  But  we  w^ere 
so  far  influenced  as  to  bestow  ourselves 
and  our  portmanteaux  in  a  first-class  com- 
partment, thereby  paying  exactly  double 
for  the  privilege  of  sitting  on  plush  instead 
of  rep,  and  having  an  extra  arm  to  lean 
against.  That  was  about  all  the  differ- 
ence we  were  able  to  discover,  speaking 
generally,  between  first  and  second  class 
cars,  though  we  made  many  trials  of  both. 
Stirling  was  an  old  story.  So  was  Dum- 
blane,  where  we  looked,  as  we  had  looked 
before,  for  "Fair  Jessie,"  but  failed  to 
find  her  —  though  it  is  quite  possible  we 
saw  her  great-granddaughter  in  a  straw  hat 
and  scarlet  jacket;  said  jacket  being  in 
close  proximity  to  another  jaunty  bit  of 


204      FROM    TIIK    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

scarlet  that  was  gay  with  gold  lace  and 
bright  buttons. 

After  leaving  Duniblane  we  were  on  new 
ground.  Are  there  ghostly  houses,  I  won- 
der? Not  houses  that  are  haunted  by 
ghosts,  but  houses  that  are  ghosts  them- 
selves ?  Not  a  stone  is  left  of  the  old 
monastery  of  the  Black  Friars  at  Perth. 
But  surely  its  shadowy  phantom  rose  be- 
fore us,  and  within  its  unsubstantial  cham- 
bers we  saw  James  the  First,  wise  king, 
soldier-poet,  loyal  gentleman,  in  his  very 
"habit  as  he  lived."  Brave  Catharine 
Douglas,  too,  was  there,  barring  the  door 
against  his  pursuers  with  her  frail  right 
arm ;  and  pale  Joanna,  stilling  her  trem- 
bling maids. 

Below  us  on  either  side  as  we  crossed 
the  Tay  stretched  the  fair  ' '  Inches  of 
Perth,"  smiling  in  the  level  sunshine. 
Apparently  they  have  quite  forgotten  how 
once  on  their  broad  meadows  thirty  men 
of  Clan  Chattan  fought  thirty  of  Clan  Kay, 


FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  IXYERNESS.   205 

until  the  river  ran  with  blood,  and  but 
twelve  men,  and  they  sorely  wounded, 
were  left  out  of  the  whole  sixty. 

Then  up  we  climbed  through  the  heart 
of  the  Highlands,  mountain  towering  above 
mountain,  and  the  scenery  growing  more 
and  more  vividly  picturesque,  till  we  reached 
the  wild  pass  of  Killiecrankie,  just  beyond 
which  a  rude  stone  marks  the  spot  where 
Claverhouse  fell.  How  or  why  he  ever  al- 
lowed General  MacKay  to  loiter  through  the 
easily  defended  pass,  where  the  very  spirits 
of  the  woods  and  the  mountains  waited  to 
join  forces  with  the  "Bonnets  of  Bonnie 
Dundee,"  must  ever  be  a  mystery.  The 
battle  was  fought  in  the  open  valley  beyond. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  when  we  passed 
Blair-Athole,  that  loveliest  of  Highland 
hamlets,  with  the  many-turreted  castle  of 
the  earls  of  xVthole  rising  out  of  the  trees 
on  the  hillside,  and  the  old  church  of  Blair, 
the  burial-place  of  Dundee,  just  beyond  it. 
The  scene  may  not  always  be  so  fair  as  it 


206     FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS. 

was  that  August  afternoon,  when  the  purple 
of  the  heather,  blending  with  the  soft  olives 
and  browns  of  ferns  and  mosses,  clothed 
every  mountain  from  base  to  summit,  and 
all  were  enwrapped  in  the  golden  haze  that 
was  the  forerunner  of  the  sunset.  But  as 
we  saw  it,  it  was  beautiful  beyond  descrip- 
tion. The  shadows  grew  deeper  as  we  lost 
sight  of  Ben  Vrackie.  Look,  Saint  Katha- 
rine !  Is  that  the  shade  of  Macbeth  stalk- 
ing along  in  the  gloaming?  Surely  here 
"foul  whisperings  are  abroad,"  for  lo! 
proud  Dunsinane  towers  on  one  side,  and 
on  the  other  Burnam  Hill,  robed  to  its 
crown  in  stately  evergreens. 

A  tall  gray  monument  rose  to  the  right, 
crowning  a  slight  elevation.  "  To  the  hon- 
our of  the  '  Wolf  of  Badenock,'  ladies," 
explained  a  courtly  Highland  gentleman 
who  shared  our  compartment.  "You  are 
now  in  the  very  heart  of  the  old  clans. 
There  are  the  Macintoshes,  over  there  the 
MacDoualds,  and  farther  on  the  Camerons, 


FROM    THE    BORDER    TO    INVERNESS.      207 

the  Gordons,  the  Frasers,  and  many  another 
name  doubtless  as  familiar  to  you  as  to 
me."  As  he  got  off  at  Kencraig,  and  was 
met  by  friends,  as  well  as  by  retainers  to 
whose  care  he  consigned  a  hamper  that  had 
been  stowed  away  under  the  seat,  we  had 
strong  suspicions  that  our  courteous  cama- 
rade  du  voyage  was  himself  ' '  one  of  the 
Macintoshes. ' ' 

At  the  next  station  two  bright-faced  lad- 
dies in  Highland  caps  and  shooting  jackets, 
laden  with  rods  and  creels  and  all  manner 
of  fishing  toggery,  swept  in  upon  us  like  a 
pair  of  young  whirlwinds.  Very  well-man- 
nered whirlwinds  they  were,  however,  not 
forgetting  to  make  graceful  salutation  as 
they  established  themselves  in  comfortable 
quarters.  Their  baskets  were  suspiciously 
empty,  and  it  was  doubtless  the  anticipa- 
tion of  joys  to  come  that  made  their  young 
faces  so  radiant,  and  kept  them  in  a  sub- 
dued gale  till  they  left  us  a  few  stations 
farther  on. 


208   FROM  THE  BORDER  TO  IXVERNESS. 

Night  fell  all  too  soon.  Yet  we  had  i)assed 
the  best  of  the  Highlands  before  it  came ; 
and  what  with  the  glory  of  the  heather,  the 
glory  of  the  mountains,  the  glory  of  cloud 
and  sky,  we  were  tired  out,  and  were  will- 
ing at  last  to  shut  our  eyes,  while  our  souls 
chanted  the  Te  Deum,  —  "All  the  earth 
doth  worship  thee,  the  Father  everlasting." 

At  ten  o'clock  we  reached  Inverness. 


VIII. 

TO   CAWDOR   CASTLE  AND   CULLO- 
DEN  MOOR. 

170R  four  weeks  Scotland  had  given  us  of 
her  best.  We  had  had  the  glory  of  the 
heather,  the  glory  of  the  lakes,  the  glory  of 
mountain  and  cloud  and  sky,  to  say  nothing 
of  that  other  glory  of  storied  castles,  ruins 
magnificent  in  their  decay,  and  palaces 
whose  every  stone  could  speak.  And  we 
had  not  seen  so  much  as  a  hint  of  a  Scotch 
mist,  or  a  drop  of  rain  ! 

But  on  the  22d  of  August  we  found  the 
skies  overcast  and  a  storm  impending.  We 
compared  notes,  and  consulted  the  most 
genial  and  painstaking  host  in  the  United 
Kingdom.  Certainly  we  had  not  come  up 
there  to  be  daunted  by  a  little  rain;  and 
most  certainly,  too,  if  we  were  to  see  Caw- 
dor Castle  and  Culloden  Moor  at  all,  we 
p  209 


2IO  TO   CAWDOR   CASTLE. 

must  sec  them  that  day.  It  was  not  one  of 
the  coach  days,  either.  The  porter  came  to 
the  fore  to  give  his  advice.  The  leddies 
could  perhaps  get  a  machine,  and  go  by 
themselves.  "A  machine  ?''  We  opened 
wide  eyes,  and  then  and  there  added 
something  to  our  store  of  knowledge; 
namely,  the  fact  that  in  Highland  dia- 
lect a  "machine"  is  any  sort  of  a 
"trap"  in  which  human  beings  can  ride. 
Would  we  have  a  machine  for  the  round 
trip,  twenty-eight  miles  ?  Indeed  we 
would. 

The  machine,  in  this  instance,  proved  to 
be  a  light  open  wagonette  for  one  horse  ; 
the  driver  in  front,  and  seats  for  two,  facing 
each  other,  behind.  Unrolling  our  mackin- 
toshes for  the  first  time  since  we  landed  at 
Liverpool,  in  June,  we  took  our  umbrellas, 
and  climbed  into  the  small  vehicle.  Our 
host  put  in  wraps  and  rugs  enough  for  the 
supply  of  a  regiment,  and  off  we  started  just 
as  the  rain  began  to  fall,  declaring  to  each 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  211 

other  that  it  was  great  fun,  —  as  it  was,  if 
fun  is  ever  synonymous  with  pure,  unadul- 
terated enjoyment. 

For  anything  more  delightful  can  hardly 
be  conceived  than  that  drive  in  the  soft, 
warm  rain,  that  was  in  itself  a  luxury 
after  the  long  drought,  —  along  the  curving 
shores  of  the  Moray  Firth,  through  lovely 
wooded  recesses  where  the  dripping  branches 
met  above  our  heads,  between  hedge-rows 
where  all  sweet  wild  things  were  growing 
together  in  riotous  confusion,  holly,  and 
wild  rose,  and  ivy,  and  bramble,  twining 
their  arms  about  each  other  and  dancing 
as  if  for  very  joy,  and  beside  banks  all 
matted  with  heather,  so  deliciously  pink 
when  seen  near  at  hand,  so  royally  purple 
when  it  stretches  afar  over  moorland  and 
mountain.  All  along  the  way  bluebells 
swaying  in  the  wind  and  rain  swung  their 
perfect  chalices,  and  tiny  pink  and  yellow 
flowers,  unknown  to  us,  poised  like  butter- 
flies on  slender  stalks  to  keep  them  com- 


212  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

pany.  Here  and  there  stately  rowan-trees 
flamed  beside  the  road,  their  great  trusses 
of  scarlet  berries  burning  like  torches  in  the 
dark  emerald  of  their  leaves. 

The  roads  were  perfect,  as  level  as  a  floor ; 
not  a  rut,  nor  a  stone,  nor  a  hillock  big 
enough  to  make  a  "cradle-hole,"  and  no 
mud  even  in  the  rain.  Well,  Great  Britain 
has  been  building  her  roads  for  eighteen 
hundred  years,  and  she  had  the  Romans  to 
teach  her  how^  and  set  her  a  good  example. 
Perhaps  ours  vyill  be  as  fine  when  we  have 
worked  at  them  as  long. 

We  drove  up  at  length,  after  much  cir- 
cumambulation  and  many  devious  wind- 
ings, before  Ye  Cawdor  Arms,  a  little  quaint 
old  inn  at  the  junction  of  the  highway  with 
the  lane  that  leads  to  the  castle.  It  was  a 
most  primitive  establishment  in  which  to 
look  for  entertainment  for  man  and  beast. 
The  low  stone  walls  had  lost,  if  they  had 
ever  possessed,  the  garniture  of  ivj-  that  so 
often  makes   the   hovel  more  picturesque 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  2I3 

than  the  palace,  and  stood  forth  in  all  their 
unveiled  nakedness.  A  few  scarlet  runners 
on  poles  made  a  hit  of  intense  brightness 
in  one  corner.  On  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  house,  just  under  the  low  eaves,  a 
weather-beaten  sign  displayed  the  latest 
attempt  at  emblazoning  the  arms  of  the 
House  of  Cawdor.  Apparently  it  had  been 
painted  over  and  over  again  by  a  hundred 
successive  generations.  The  inn  itself 
looked  old  enough  to  have  given  food  and 
shelter  to  King  Duncan's  retainers,  when 
he  made  his  unfortunate  visit  to  the  Thane 
of  Cawdor. 

It  had  stopped  raining  by  this  time,  and, 
leaving  our  waterproofs  and  dripping  um- 
brellas at  the  inn,  we  walked  down  the  lane 
to  the  ivy-covered  arch  of  the  gatev/ay 
leading  to  the  castle.  Near  it  was  a  small 
cottage,  too  unpretentious  to  be  called  a 
lodge,  in  the  door  of  which  stood  an  old 
woman,  curtsying.  Did  we  wish  to  call  on 
the  leddies  o'  the  family  ?    No,  we  were 


214  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

strangers.  We  only  wished  permission  to 
see  the  castle,  we  answered.  "But  ye 
maun  ha'  tickets  for  that,''''  she  said.  Here 
was  a  dilemma.  But  it  proved  a  veiy 
simple  matter.  They  could  be  had  at  the 
post-office  for  a  "  saxpenny  "  each ;  and  our 
driver,  who,  having  looked  after  the  well- 
being  of  his  horse,  now  stood  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, peering  over  the  lichen-covered  stone 
wall  into  the  dark  flowing  rivulet  beyond 
it,  could  readily  obtain  them.  The  "sax- 
pennies"  were  for  the  poor.  Meanwhile, 
what  wonder  that  we  were  seized  with  a 
sudden  conviction  that  our  feet  were  cold  ? 

"May  we  come  in  and  warm  our  feet  by 
your  fire  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Ay,  ay,  coom  in,  coom  in,  and  sit  ye 
doon,"  she  said  heartily,  as  she  ushered  us 
in,  and  wiped  two  spotlessly  clean  chairs 
before  offering  them  to  us.  Such  a  queer 
little  place  as  it  was  !  The  outside  door 
was  of  some  rich,  dark,  polished  wood, 
studded  with  brass  knobs,  but  in  it  lay  all 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  215 

the  splendour  of  the  establishment.  The 
walls  were  so  low  I  could  have  touched  the 
celling  with  my  hand.  The  stone  floor,  the 
table,  and  the  two  or  three  chairs,  one  of 
which  was  adorned  with  a  cushion  covered 
with  worsted  patchwork,  had  been  scoured 
till  they  were  white.  In  one  corner  stood 
a  narrow  bed,  entirely  covered  by  a  pointed 
canopy  of  some  faded  pink  stuff.  Over  the 
blackened,  smoke-stained  fireplace  were  a 
couple  of  shelves,  not  for  bric-^-brac,  but 
filled  with  dishes  and  household  utensils. 
A  kettle  hummed  over  the  fire,  which  was 
certainly  built  on  an  economical  scale,  con- 
sidering the  dampness  of  the  day.  On  the 
one  broad  window-seat  lay  a  book,  brown 
leather  and  well-thumbed,  which  was  evi- 
dently a  Bible.  In  the  chimney-corner,  a 
cat  purred  softly.  It  was  like  a  chapter 
out  of  some  story  of  humble,  pious  poverty, 
—  little  fire,  little  cat,  well-worn  Bible, 
and  all. 

The   old  woman    was   interested   in  her 


2l6  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

visitors.  We  had  come  a  long  ways,  —  from 
Lunnon,  or  from  furren  parts,  mebbe,  to 
see  the  old  castle  ? 

Yes ;  we  had  come  from  over  the  sea,  all 
the  way  from  America. 

As  usual,  we  had  found  the  "open 
sesame."  Everywhere,  in  England  and 
Scotland  alike,  America  had  been  the  magic 
key  that  unlocked  all  doors. 

"Ye  can't  get  in  till  three  o'clock,"  she 
said,  excitedly.  "But  if  ye  only  tell  the 
housekeeper  tliat^  she'll  let  ye  in  noo  !  " 

We  preferred,  however,  notwithstanding 
this  encouragement,  to  wait  till  the  regular 
hour  of  admittance.  As  we  started  to  go 
back  to  the  inn  for  our  luncheon,  I  slipped 
a  bit  of  silver  into  the  old  woman's  wrinkled 
hand.  She  would  have  refused  it,  had  I 
not  insisted,  crying,  "  Ye  needn't  to  do  it ; 
ye  needn't  to  do  it  !  But  God  bless  ye,  and 
mak'  ye  rich,  and  bring  ye  safe  hame  to  yer 
ain  people." 

This   was  so  remarkable  that  I  at  once 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  217 

"made  a  note  on't."  And  I  wish  here 
to  solemnly  record  the  fact  that  there  were 
two  persons  in  the  United  Kingdom  who 
actually  objected  to  receiving  a  proffered 
shilling.  In  both  cases  they  were  not  able- 
bodied  men,  but  poor,  lonely  old  women. 

Ye  Cawdor  Arms  does  not  provide  very 
luxuriously  for  its  guests.  But  we  had  our 
luncheon,  such  as  it  was,  at  the  same  table 
with  a  young  man  who  looked  like  a  student 
on  his  vacation  tramp.  As  he  slowly  ate 
his  cold  meat  and  bread  and  cheese,  and 
sipped  his  single  glass  of  wine,  he  read  from 
a  book  lying  open  beside  his  plate,  with  one 
hand  resting  half  the  time  on  the  head  of  a 
beautiful  Scotch  collie.  The  master  kept  i 
his  distance ;  but  the  dog,  after  making  a  '. 
deliberate  survey,  drew  nearer  and  nearer,  i 
and  finally  laid  his  great  head  on  my  knee, 
while  his  eloquent  brown  eyes  begged  for 
a  share  of  our  portion  of  the  feast.  He 
got  it. 

We  started  for  the  castle  at  last,  entering 


2l8  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

in  under  the  ivied  archway,  and  going  up 
the  broad  gravelled  road,  with  smooth  green 
lawns,  dotted  with  stately  forest  trees, 
stretching  far  to  the  left. 

"'This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat;  the 
air  nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
unto  our  gentle  senses,' "  quoted  Saint 
Katharine,  as  we  crossed  the  rusty  draw- 
bridge over  the  moat,  and  entered  through 
what  had  once  been  a  portcullis  into  a  small, 
square  court,  from  which  steps  descended 
on  either  side  unto  other  courts.  Eight  in 
front  of  us,  facing  the  drawbridge,  was  a 
mounted  cannon,  with  the  conical  heap  of 
balls  beside  it.  We  knew  that  in  spite  of 
all  these  warlike  preparations  there  must  be 
a  hospitable  bell  somewhere  ;  and  failing  to 
discover  it  above,  we  went  down  into  the 
lower  right-hand  court,  where  we  found  it, 
and  the  door  of  entrance. 

An  exquisite  young  Adonis  in  livery  ap- 
peared,—  Jeemes  being  generally  a  more 
elegant  man  than  his  master.     Certainly 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  219 

we  could  see  the  castle,  from  three  to  five. 
But  —  looking  at  his  watch  —  it  still  wanted 
five  minutes  to  three. 

We  begged  pardon.  Our  watches  must 
be  at  fault.  But,  meanwhile,  might  we  be 
permitted  to  walk  in  the  grounds  ? 

We  might ;  and  he  would  himself  notify 
the  housekeeper  of  our  desires. 

We  crossed  the  drawbridge  again,  nothing 
loath  to  wander  about  the  place,  so  still  and 
peaceful  now,  and  to  look  down  the  long 
vistas  leading  into  the  adjoining  forest. 
Presently  a  schoolboy,  with  slate  and  books, 
came  out  of  the  castle,  and  hurried  down  a 
shaded  lane  to  a  building  near  by.  Soon 
two  young  women  in  walking  costume,  with 
tartans  picturesquely  draped  over  their 
shoulders,  and  carrying  small  baskets, 
passed  by  us,  on  the  traditional  errand  of 
mercy,  no  doubt. 

"  Port  wine  and  beef-tea  in  one  basket, 
no  doubt,"  said  I,  "  and  a  flannel  petticoat 
in  the  other." 


220  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

Then,  as  we  turned  towards  the  house 
again,  we  met  two  gentlemen,  one  of  whom, 
it  was  evident,  from  his  air  of  proprietor- 
ship and  at-homeness,  was  Lord  Campbell. 

' ' '  The  Thane  of  Cawdor  lives,  a  pros- 
perous gentleman '  still,  if  one  may  judge 
from  appearances,"  I  remarked  to  Saint 
Katharine,  as  he  lifted  his  cap,  and  we  went 
our  separate  ways. 

The  housekeeper,  a  handsome,  middle- 
aged  woman,  in  cashmere  gown  and  pretty 
cap,  received  us  at  the  door  with  such  an 
air  of  smiling  hospitality  that  we  felt  at 
home  a,t  once.  Cawdor  Castle  is  almost 
the  only  one  of  the  really  old  castles  — 
that  is,  those  that  have  not  been  thoroughly 
made  over  and  modernized  —  that  is  still 
used  as  a  family  residence.  We  were  first 
taken  into  the  dining-room,  where  the 
table,  not  yet  fully  cleared,  showed  that 
luncheon  was  just  over.  It  was  a  pleasant, 
low-ceiled  room,  completely  hung  with  old 
needle-work    tapestry.     The   only  modern 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  221 

thing  in  or  about  it  was  the  carved  wooden 
mantelpiece,  which  was  put  in  by  the 
present  earl,  and  bears  his  crest  and  those 
of  his  four  sisters,  with  the  date  of  the 
room,  1510. 

From  thence  we  went  to  the  kitchen, 
whose  walls,  many  feet  thick,  had  been  redo- 
lent with  the  odours  of  roasting  mutton  and 
venison  as  far  back  as  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. The  enormous  fireplace  that  nearly 
fills  one  end  is  unaltered,  and  before  it,  or 
in  it,  the  family  cooking  is  done  to  this 
day.  For  the  help  of  the  cook  there  is 
some  odd  machinery,  still  in  good  working 
order  and  in  daily  use,  though  as  old  as  the 
chimney  itself,  by  which  the  heat  of  the 
fire  turns  and  regulates  the  spit.  The  upper 
end  of  the  great  room  is  hewn  out  of  the 
solid  rock,  floor,  walls,  and  ceiling  being 
of  the  same  mass  of  stone.  Long  tables 
extended  down  the  middle  throughout  the 
whole  length,  and  half  a  dozen  maids,  busy 
with    pans,   pots,    and    scrubbing-brashes, 


222  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

glanced  at  us  curiously  as  we  passed  by. 
Familiarity  breads  contempt;  and  there  is 
small  doubt  that  they  marvelled  under 
their  caps  at  the  interest,  or  curiosity,  that 
brought  so  many  questioning  eyes  into 
their  old  kitchen. 

A  short  winding  passage  and  a  flight 
of  steps  led  us  to  the  dungeon.  It  is 
not  a  bad  place,  a;s  dungeons  go,  having 
more  light,  air,  and  space  than  most  of 
them.  Still,  the  sound  of  the  heavy  iron 
door  swinging  to,  with  a  clang,  upon  its 
rusty  hinges,  must  have  been  anything 
but  agreeable  to  the  poor  captives  upon 
whom  it  has  so  often  closed.  It  was  a 
hard  thing  to  realize,  with  that  kindly, 
smiling  face  beside  us,  instead  of  a  warder 
in  coat-of-mail.  In  the  middle  of  the 
dungeon,  like  the  central  column  of  a 
chapter-house,  rose  the  trunk  of  a  large 
hawthorn-tree.  "  There  is  a  curious  story 
about  this  old  tree,  which  is  older  than 
the    castle    itself,"  said  the  housekeeper, 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  223 

laying  her  hand  upon  it.  "Tlie  founder 
of  the  house  was  looking  for  a  place  to 
build  upon,  when  a  saint,  or  an  angel  (it 
doesn't  matter  which),  appeared  to  him, 
and  told  him  he  must  build  upon  what- 
ever spot  an  ass  kden  with  gold  should 
stop  three  times  successively.  Shortly 
afterward,  an  ass  weighed  down  with 
treasures  persisted  in  stopping  three  times 
in  the  shade  of  this  hawthorn-tree.  And 
so,  you  see,  we  have  our  castle,  which 
was  built  around  it." 

To  establish  at  once  the  principle  of 
believing  whatever  is  told  you,  wonder- 
fully enhances  the  interest  of  travel. 
We  had  done  this  at  the  very  outset  of 
our  pilgrimage,  and  of  course  believed 
this  bit  of  medieval  history  implicitly. 
But  we  may  perhaps  be  forgiven  if  we 
venture  to  wonder  whether  the  ass  and 
his  gold  belonged  to  the  founder,  or  to 
his  dearest  enemy. 

*'Now    you    must    see    King    Duncan's 


224  TO   CAWDOR   CASTLE. 

room,"  said  our  pleasant  guide,  leading 
the  way  to  the  tower  stairs.  The  climb- 
ing of  steep,  narrow,  winding  ways,  worn 
into  such  great  hollows  that  one  can  hardly 
feel  sure  of  a  foothold,  is,  to  put  it  mildly, 
not  as  easy  as  going  up  in  an  elevator. 
But  reflecting  it  was  but  once  in  a  life- 
time, I  plucked  up  my  courage,  and  gal- 
lantly followed  in  the  wake  of  the  small 
procession.  After  ascending  two  or  three 
flights,  we  entered  a  large  square  room, 
with  two  windows  commanding  a  wide 
and  pleasant  outlook.  It  was  plainly 
furnished,  containing  a  canopied  bed,  with 
chintz  drapery  drawn  up  and  carefully 
spread  over  the  pillows,  after  the  inevi- 
table Scotch-English  fashion,  a  table,  a 
chest  of  drawers,  and  a  few  chairs. 

"  Now  tell  me  truly,"  said  I,  — for,  sad 
as  it  is  to  say  it,  there  is  sometimes  a 
limit  to  the  credulity  of  the  most  con- 
scientious traveller,  —  '■'■  icas  King  Duncan 
ever  in  this  room  ?    The  castle  figures  in 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  225 

the  play,  but  was  the  king  murdered 
here  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  as  you  ask  me  frankly, 
I  must  say  he  was  not.  This  castle  is  not 
as  old  as  the  date  of  Macbeth.  But 
Shakespeare  chose  it  as  the  scene  of  the 
murder,  and  out  of  deference  to  that  fact 
the  family  has  always  kept  up  the  tradi- 
tion, and  called  this  the  Duncan  room." 

The  decorations  of  the  apartment,  if  so 
they  could  be  called,  were  truly  unique. 
The  space  above  the  fireplace,  in  which 
was  a  pair  of  huge  iron  fire-dogs,  was  com- 
pletely covered  by  a  charcoal  sketch  done 
upon  the  white  wall.  The  three  weird 
sisters  were  brewing  their  unholy  witch- 
broth  in  a  great  caldron,  while  the  flames 
struggled  with  the  clouds  of  smoke,  out 
of  which  the  uncanny  faces  peered.  On 
one  side  of  the  fire,  a  black  cat  humped 
her  back,  and  hissed  at  a  serpent  coiled 
and  just  ready  to  dart,  on  the  other  side. 
On  the  left  of  the  fireplace  was  a  life- 
Q 


226  TO   CAWDOR   CASTLE. 

sized  figure  of  Macbeth,  with  hair  on  end 
and  dagger  drawn,  staring  with  horror  in 
his  eyes  at  the  real  and  truly  bed,  in 
which  Duncan,  no  doubt,  was  supposed  to 
be  lying.  On  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed  was  Lady  Macbeth,  tragical  to  the 
last  degree,  urging  him  on  to  the  commis- 
sion of  the  bloody  deed.  Rough  as  they 
were,  there  was  spirit  in  the  drawings. 
Evidently  a  party  of  merry  young  people 
had  amused  themselves  with  this  attempt 
to  make  the  Duncan  room  truly  Shake- 
spearian. 

The  rest  of  the  party  went  up  several 
flights  farther,  while  I  stayed  below  with 
Duncan  and  the  witches.  They  saw  the 
window  from  which  Simon  Fraser,  Lord 
Lovat,  was  let  down  in  a  basket  during 
the  Jacobite  wars,  —  escaping  then,  only  to 
be  beheaded  afterwards ;  and  the  loop- 
holes through  which,  in  the  good  old 
times,  melted  lead  was  poured  like  coals  of 
fire   upon    the    heads    of    besieging    foes. 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  22/ 

Pleasanter  far  than  this  was  it  to  look 
down  from  their  airy  perch  into  the  for- 
est, where  they  could  see  the  lovely  wood- 
land paths  stretching  on  and  on.  The 
great  estate  runs  thirty  miles  in  one  di- 
rection. 

We  were  agreeably  surprised  by  being 
taken  into  the  family  rooms,  the  private 
apartments,  to  say  much  of  which  here 
would  be  a  breach  of  trust  and  hospital- 
ity. But  some  jewel-lovers  amongst  us 
envied  my  lord  the  magnificent  gems  that 
sparkled  on  his  dressing-table.  One  daintily 
furnished  chamber,  with  the  open  Prayer- 
Book  on  its  own  small  table,  the  text  for 
the  day  on  the  wall,  the  basket  of  needle- 
work, the  well-worn  companionable  books 
lying  witliin  convenient  reach  of  the  low, 
deep-cushioned  chair  that  awaited  the  com- 
ing of  its  mistress  in  front  of  the  smoul- 
dering fire,  left  on  some  of  our  minds  a 
most  pleasant  impression  of  gentle,  re- 
fined, studious,  thoughtful  girlhood. 


228  TO   CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

The  great  drawing-room  was  as  homelike 
a  place  as  one  need  wish  to  see,  —  a  long, 
low-ceiled,  tapestry-hung  apartment,  with 
the  fii  e  of  logs  on  the  broad  hearth  burning 
low,  the  sunshine  streaming  in,  and  flowers 
in  profusion  everywhere ;  a  room  for  use, 
not  show,  for  on  a  little  table  where  some 
one  had  been  mounting  photographs,  the 
sponge,  bowl  of  water,  and  mucilage  bottle 
were  all  ready  for  further  operations.  From 
the  walls  the  ancient  lords  and  ladies  of 
Cawdor  looked  down  on  the  pretty,  peace- 
ful scene.  I  wondered  if  they  did  not 
think  they  had  had  a  hard  time  of  it 
themselves,  in  the  far-away  centuries  full 
of  turmoil  and  bloodshed. 

"  Have  the  lords  of  Cawdor  always  been 
Campbells  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"Oh,  no,"  was  the  answer.  "But  long 
ago  the  sole  heiress  of  the  house  of  Cawdor 
married  a  Campbell,  —  one  of  the  Argyles, 
you  know,"  she  added  confidentially,  — 
"and  so  the  family  name  was  changed." 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  229 

Soon  after  this  we  passed  out  under  the 
portcullis  and  over  the  drawbridge,  down 
the  broad,  smooth  walk,  and  through  the 
green  archway  into  the  country  lane  again, 
and  our  visit  to  Cawdor  Castle  was  over. 

It  was  not  actually  raining  again,  but  it 
was  still  dark  and  lowering.  The  young 
Highlander  who  had  charge  of  our  "  ma- 
chine "  looked  dubiously  at  the  clouds,  as 
we  resumed  our  seats.  By  a  short  cut 
across  country,  we  could  be  home  in  an 
hour.  If  we  went  round  by  way  of  Cullo- 
den,  we  would  surely  be  caught  in  the 
rain. 

"  And  there's  nothing  to  see  there,  any- 
how," he  said.     "  Just  an  empty  field." 

But  the  nothingness  of  Culloden  Moor 
was  exactly  what  we  wanted  to  see,  and 
we  went  on. 

Nature  had  harmonized  charmingly  with 
all  our  doings  through  the  whole  summer. 
Sunshine  would  have  been  out  of  place  that 
afternoon.     As  we  approached  Culloden, 


230  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

the  clouds  grew  darker  and  deeper.  The 
dull  gray  mists  lay  damp  and  heavy  on  the 
barren  moor.  The  silent  hills  were  blotted 
out.  The  sky  hung  so  low  it  seemed  as  if 
we  could  touch  it ;  and  it  and  the  mists 
shut  us  in.  There  was  nothing  left  of  the 
whole  wide  world  but  the  moor  of  Cullo- 
den,  and  we  were  the  only  living  creatures 
in  it.  Not  a  bird  sang  ;  not  a  grouse,  nor 
a  rabbit,  resented  our  intrusion  upon  its 
solitudes. 

First  we  passed,  lying  in  a  field  to  our 
left,  but  very  near  the  road,  an  immense  gray 
bowlder,  lettered  ''Cumberland,  1746. '' 
From  this  stone  the  "Butcher  Duke  ^'  com- 
manded the  field,  on  that  April  day  when 
the  last  hope  of  the  Stuarts  was  crushed. 
An  eighth  of  a  mile  farther  on,  the  horse 
stopped. 

"  This  is  the  '  Field  of  the  Dead,'  "  said 
our  young  cavalier,  half  under  his  breath. 
He  had  not  wanted  to  come,  but  now  that 
he  was  here  the  scene  and  the  hour  took 


TO    CAAVDOR    CASTLE.  23 1 

hold  upon  him  as  upon  us.  The  poet 
has  set  his  sign  manual  upon  all  things  here 
in  this  Old  World.  It  is  quite  probable  that 
this  young  fellow  did  not  know  he  was  quot- 
ing ;  but  half  the  schoolboys  in  America 
have  "spoken"  — 

"  Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle 

array, 
For  the  Field  of  the  Dead  rushes  red  on  my 

sight, 
And  the  clans  of  Culloden  are  scattered  in 

flight." 

We  got  out  of  the  wagonette  silently,  and 
walked  reverently  across  the  field,  still 
so\vn  with  ridges,  perceptibly  greener  than 
the  rest,  where  the  dead  were  buried  in 
trenches,  to  a  rough  gray  stone  near  the 
outer  wall  on  the  left.  It  was  on  the  very 
outskirts  of  the  field,  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  crumbling,  moss-grown  barricade  a 
few  stunted  trees  and  shrubs  kept  watch 
and  guard. 


232  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

The  stone   bore  this   inscription,  rudely 

^^*  =  -  Well 

Of  the  Dead.    Here  the  chief 
Of  the  Clan  MacGillivrays 
Fell. 

Farther  down  the  field  was  another  stone, 

marked  thus :  — 

Clans. 

Macintosh. 
MacLean. 
Mac  Lauc  hl an  . 
MacGillivray. 
Highlanders. 

Others,  still  farther  down,  were  inscribed, 
severally,  "Cameron,"  "Stewart  of  Ap- 
pin,"  "Fraser." 

The  stones  were  all  of  the  roughest 
description.  They  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  hewn  out  with  the  head  of  a  battle- 
axe,  and  lettered  as  rudely.  But  they 
were  so  in  keeping  with  the  place,  and 
with  the  strong,  rough  natures  of  the 
fiercely  loyal  clansmen  who  fell  at  Cul- 
loden,  that  they  were  more  impressive  than 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  233 

the  most  imposing  of  monuments.  On  the 
top  of  many  of  the  stones  kindly  hands 
had  laid  sprays  of  their  own  pink  heather. 
Two  only  had  been  overlooked,  "Cameron  " 
and  "  Stewart  of  Appin."  We  placed  our 
offering  of  heather  on  these  also,  and  then 
crossed  the  road  to  the  cairn  on  the  opposite 
side. 

I  cannot  give  the  dimensions  of  this  great 
heap  of  stones,  very  slightly  conical,  if 
indeed  it  is  conical  at  all,  and  flat  on  top. 
It  is  entirely  devoid  of  ornament,  this  im- 
mense sombre  cairn,  built  of  the  common 
rounded  pebbles  lying  broadcast  on  the 
moor.  On  one  side  is  an  inscription, 
guarded  by  an  iron  grating  ;  for  the  vandal, 
like  death,  has  all  times  and  places  for  his 
own.     It  runs  thus  :  — 

"  Battle  of  Culloden  was  fought  on  this 
moor  16th  April,  1746.  The  graves  of  the 
gallant  Highlanders  who  fought  for  Scot- 
land and  Prince  Charlie  are  marked  by 
the  names  of  their  clans." 


234  TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE. 

"By  the  names  of  their  clans."  No 
separate  glory,  no  distinctive  honour,  not 
even  a  record  on  a  memorial  stone,  for  the 
warriors  who  fell  at  CuUoden. 

The  English  are  buried  near  the  Cumber- 
land stone.  One  mile  farther  on,  a  slab 
inscribed  "  King's  Stables  "  shows  where 
the  English  army  was  quartered  after  the 
battle. 

Right  or  wrong,  good  or  bad,  weak  or 
wicked,  by  some  strong  fascination  the  un- 
fortunate Stuarts  hold  the  hearts  of  man- 
kind. Bonnie,  sunny-haired  Prince  Charlie 
is  too  picturesque  a  figure  to  be  speedily 
blotted  from  the  page  of  history.  Peace  to 
his  ashes,  and  long  may  the  purple  bells  of 
the  heather  ring  their  soft  chimes  above  the 
dust  of  his  unforgotten  braves. 

We  lingered  as  long  as  we  dared,  and 
then  drove  on  to  Inverness.  Just  as  we 
entered  the  town  a  burst  of  sunshine 
greeted  us.  The  beautiful  river  Ness 
shone,   and  danced,   and  sparkled;    reju- 


TO    CAWDOR    CASTLE.  235 

venated  birds,  thinking  spring  had  come 
again,  poured  floods  of  music  from  hedge 
and  thicket ;  and  by  the  time  we  reached 
the  hotel  not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen. 

Smiling,  deft-handed  Scotch  lassies  took 
our  wet  wraps  to  the  kitchen  to  be  dried. 
In  a  trice  a  fire  blazed  brightly  on  our 
hearth  ;  dinner  was  served,  the  dear  home 
letters  were  brought  us,  and  two  happy 
women  settled  themselves  for  an  evening  of 
quiet  content. 

"Saint  Katharine,"  said  I,  "this  has 
been  a  day  to  remember." 


IX. 
AN  ENCmVNTED  DAY. 

"  TTOT  water,  mem,  and  the  'bus  leaves  at 

■^    seven,"  said  a  soft  voice  at  the  door. 

''Are  you  awake,  Saint  Katharine?"  I 
called.  "Do  you  hear?  Must  we  leave 
Inverness  to-day?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  sleepily ,  to  all  three 
questions.  "We  must.  But  do  you  suppose 
that  when  we  get  to  heaven  we  can  stay  as 
long  as  we  want  to  ?  We  have  not  been  to 
the  castle  yet." 

' '  Don't  bother  your  blessed  head  about 
that,"  I  said  consolingly.  "  The  castle  is 
frightfully  modern,  and  it  is  only  a  prison, 
at  the  best.  Nothing  is  worth  looking 
at  over  here  that  is  not  older  than  the 
seventeenth  century.  Is  your  portmanteau 
packed?" 

The  omnibus  was  soon  announced;  but 
236 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  237 

early  as  it  was,  — and  seven  o'clock  is  very- 
early  in  Scotland,  —  we  found  our  genial 
host  waiting  to  escort  us  to  the  steamer  by 
which  we  were  to  go  down  the  Caledonia 
Canal.  Presently  we  were  whirling  away 
through  the  sunlit,  silent  streets  and  over 
the  sparkling  river,  on  our  way  to  the 
dock  of  the  pretty  little  Glengarry.  As  we 
crossed  the  bridge,  we  looked  up  for  the 
last  time,  not  so  much  to  the  castle  as  to 
its  site  on  the  storied  hill.  For  there  Mac- 
beth and  his  proud  queen  had  dwelt,  and 
there,  in  some  dark  chamber  of  the  old 
eleventh-century  castle,  that  once  stood 
there,  there  can  be  little  doubt  that  gentle 
King  Duncan  was  foully  slain.  Malcolm 
Caen-More,  he  of  the  "Big  Head,"  razed 
it  to  the  ground  in  his  filial  vengeance, 
and  builded  in  its  stead  another  and  a  finer 
one,  where  he  and  fair  Margaret  Atheling 
held  court  for  many  a  day.  This,  in  its 
turn,  was  blown  up  by  the  troops  of  Bonnie 
Prince  Charlie  in  174G,  and  number  three, 


238  AN    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

the  present  castle,  is  a  court-house  and  a 
jail. 

It  was  a  glorious  morning,  clear  and  cool, 
with  the  bluest  of  skies,  and  sunshine  that 
transfigured  whatever  it  touched.  There 
was  a  merry  stir  and  bustle  on  board  the 
small  craft,  but  even  before  we  were  fairly 
off  order  had  succeeded  chaos,  and  the 
passengers,  singly,  in  pairs,  or  in  groups,  but 
all,  like  John  Gilpin,  "on  pleasure  bent," 
had  chosen  their  seats  and  established  them- 
selves for  the  day.  The  comfortable,  large- 
windowed  cabins  accommodated  many ;  but 
most  of  us  preferred  the  upper  deck,  from 
which  we  could  watch  the  long,  changeful 
panorama  as  it  unrolled  before  us.  For  the 
Caledonia  Canal,  despite  its  prosaic  name, 
is  but  a  connecting  link  between  a  series  of 
surpassingly  lovely  lochs,  running  through 
the  Highlands,  in  almost  a  direct  line,  from 
Inverness  to  Oban. 

For  miles  after  leaving  its  dock,  the  lit- 
tle steamer  wound  its  way  between  green 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  239 

banks,  the  canal  following  so  closely  every 
bend  and  curve  of  the  river  Ness,  which 
was  here  scarcely  wider  than  itself,  as  to 
seem  its  veritable  shadow  or  double.  The 
effect  was  very  singular.  They  were  so 
near  each  other,  and  there  was  so  little 
that  was  artificial  in  the  appearance  of 
the  latter,  with  its  environment  of  reeds 
and  rushes  and  the  varied  outline  of  its 
banks,  that  it  was  hard  to  say  which  was 
river  and  which  was  canal.  Just  below 
Inverness  we  passed  the  new  cemetery,  on 
a  hillside  sloping  to  the  shore.  Trees  and 
flowers,  green  turf  and  golden  sunshine, 
made  God's-acre  beautiful  that  morning, 
and  we  caught  glimpses  of  granite  columns 
and  of  sculptured  marbles.  Over  one  small 
grave  a  white-winged  angel  poised  lightly, 
bearing  aloft  a  flaming  torch.  The  sun- 
light, streaming  down  upon  it,  kindled  it 
as  with  fire  from  heaven. 

But  not  for  life  nor  death  did  our  pretty 
GlengaiTy  pause  ;  and  on  we  swept  through 


240  AN    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

little  Loch  Dockfour  into  Loch  Ness,  the 
longest  link  in  the  chain  of  lakes,  and  aver- 
aging but  one  mile  and  a  half  in  breadth. 
Long  and  narrow  as  it  is,  it  has  depth 
enough  and  to  spare,  and  it  never  freezes. 
Little  cared  the  merry  passengers  w^hether 
it  did  or  no,  as  we  stopped  for  a  moment 
at  Urquhart,  and  saw  jutting  out  into  the 
loch,  on  a  bold  peninsula,  the  ruins  of 
Urquhart  Castle.  A  truncated  tower,  ivy- 
mantled  to  its  summit,  and  with  many 
loop-holes  in  and  out  of  which  the  wander- 
ing vines  creep  as  they  will,  and  some  low 
crumbling  walls,  are  all  that  is  left  of  its 
ancient  strength  and  splendour.  A  few 
miles  farther  down,  and  we  landed  at  Foy- 
ers. There,  it  was  said,  omnibuses  would 
be  in  waiting,  to  convey  such  of  the  passen- 
gers as  did  not  care  for  so  long  a  walk  to 
the  falls  of  Foyers.  The  boat  would  wait 
for  us  an  hour.  But  the  enterprising  in- 
habitants must  have  made  up  their  minds 
that  the   average  tourist  is  a  pedestrian. 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  24I 

Just  one  nondescript  vehicle  waited  at  the 
little  pier;  and  it  was  filled  and  whirling 
away  down  the  road  with  the  first  comers 
long  before  the  rest  of  us  had  left  the  boat. 
There  was  a  rush  for  tickets,  and  then  by- 
twos,  and  threes,  and  half-dozens,  a  boat- 
load of  people  hurried  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  falls. 

"Go  on,  Saint  Katharine,"  I  said,  "and 
see  the  show  if  you  can.  The  attempt, 
even,  is  beyond  my  powers," 

I  followed,  very  much  at  my  leisure.  To 
see  the  falls  was  a  matter  of  small  account. 
But  just  once  in  a  lifetime  to  have  a  few 
blessed  moments  all  to  one's  self  in  those 
sweet,  wild  Highland  solitudes,  —  would  not 
that  be  worth  the  havmg?  Fate  granted 
me  a  full  half-hour.  The  crowd  passed 
by  me;  the  footfalls,  the  gay  voices,  the 
peals  of  laughter,  died  away.  At  my  left, 
a  narrow  path  wound  up  the  heights  and 
through  the  woods  to  the  falls.  Before 
me,   the  level  road   stretched  on  and   on. 

R 


242  AN    EXCriANTED    DAY. 

Sheer  cliffs,  not  bare  and  desolate,  but 
mantled  by  all  manner  of  creeping  growths, 
towered  on  one  side.  On  the  other,  behind 
a  screen  of  trees,  brightened  here  and 
there  by  the  scarlet  berries  of  the  rowan, 
or  mountain  ash,  the  beautiful  lake  shone 
in  the  sun. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock.  The  air  was 
fresh,  yet  warm,  and  spicy  with  the  breath 
of  the  sweet-ferns.  At  a  little  distance,  a 
gate  in  a  hedge-row  led  into  a  descending 
lane,  fern-bordered  and  thickly  shaded. 
It  was  very  enticing,  and  I  tried  the  latch. 
Alas,  it  was  fastened !  There  is  always  a 
flaming  sword  before  the  gate  of  Paradise 
—  or,  if  not  a  sword,  its  equivalent  —  to 
keep  us  out.  Yet  why  seek  for  anything 
better  than  the  best  ?  Paradise  was  all 
around  me.  Now  and  then  a  bird,  forget- 
ting that  springtime  and  love  were  over, 
trilled  softly.  Butterflies,  black  and  golden, 
fluttered  in  the  sun,  and  held  special  ren- 
dezvous wherever  the  brown  earth  in  the 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  243 

roadway  still  kept  the  moisture  of  the 
dews.  Everything  seemed  strangely  famil- 
iar ;  cranesbill  and  buttercups  bloomed 
by  the  wayside,  and  in  the  tangled  thick- 
ets brakes  and  ferns  jostled  each  other 
precisely  as  in  rocky  Green  Mountain  past- 
ures. I  looked  at  my  watch,  and  knew 
that  just  then  the  same  sun  that  shone 
on  me  in  that  sweet  sylvan  solitude  was 
rising  over  Killington  and  Pico,  three  thou- 
sand miles  away,  —  kindling  the  mountain- 
tops  with  sudden  glory,  and  filling  all  the 
fair  valleys  with  radiant  light.  Nature 
was  chanting  the  same  Te  Deum  there 
as  here,  —  "All  the  earth  doth  worship 
thee,  the  Father  everlasting." 

But  my  half-hour  was  over.  Tramp, 
tramp,  came  the  returning  feet ;  laugh 
answered  to  laugh,  and  an  occasional  shout 
awakened  the  echoes.  Saint  Katharine, 
finding  me  under  a  tree,  congratulated  me 
on  my  wisdom  in  lagging  behind.  The 
falls  were  pretty  enough,  yet  hardly  worth 


244  AX    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

the  climb  to  those  of  us  who  knew  the 
grand  New  World,  where  Nature  works  on 
so  large  a  scale.  Embarking  again,  we  had 
a  good  view  of  Mealfourvomie,  an  isolated 
peak  rising  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  loch, 
and  then  swept  on  our  downward  way  to 
Fort  Augustus,  where,  by  a  series  of  seven 
locks,  we  ascend  to  Aberchalder,  at  the 
north  end  of  Loch  Oich.  The  passage  of 
these  locks  takes  an  hour  or  two.  For 
a  while  we  sat  upon  the  deck,  watching  the 
slow  procedure,  as  two  dozen  men  tugged 
and  pulled  and  pushed,  turning  a  sort  of 
turnstile  round  and  round  ;  and  we  won- 
dered how  long  it  would  have  been,  in 
America,  before  some  one  of  the  two  dozen 
would  have  discovered  a  way  to  apply 
horse  or  steam  power  to  the  work,  which 
was  evidently  tedious. 

Pictures  to  right  of  us,  pictures  to  left 
of  us.  For  our  delight,  no  doubt,  even 
though  all  unconsciously,  a  young  woman 
in    a   brown   gown,    with    a   red   kerchief 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  245 

knotted  about  her  throat,  and  no  cover- 
ing on  her  bright  brown  hair,  had  seated 
herself  on  the  very  edge  of  the  canal, 
and  was  devoting  her  strong,  supple  fingers 
and  all  her  energies  to  the  making  of  a 
great  gray  fish-net.  No  royal  dame,  no 
princess  of  the  blood,  could  have  glanced 
at  the  canaille  with  a  more  superb  scorn 
than  she  at  us.  Her  seat  was  her  throne. 
What  cared  she  for  idle  tourists  ?  With 
bagpipes  under  his  arm,  his  green  plaid 
over  his  shoulder,  and  his  Scotch  cap  set 
jauntily,  here  comes  Sandy,  striding  along 
a^  if  in  seven-league  boots.  Two  younger 
laddies  —  for  Sandy  is  but  a  lad  himself  — 
trot  by  his  side,  small  copies  of  the  big 
brother  or  cousin,  bagpipes  and  all.  Scar- 
let coats  gleam  here  and  there,  as  her 
Majesty's  omnipresent  soldiers  mingle  with 
the  crowd,  exchanging  greetings  and  bandy- 
ing jokes.  Old  women,  in  mob-caps  with 
flapping  borders,  preside  at  little  tables  un- 
sheltered from  the  sun,  and  dispense  beer, 


246  AN    ENCITANTED    DAY. 

ale,  milk,  and  sundry  other  things  to  such 
of  the  passengers  as  are  tempted  to  test 
their  hospitality.  But  the  old  crones  waste 
no  time  while  waiting.  Each  has  her  knit- 
ting-work, and  the  long  blue-gray  stocking 
grows  apace  as  the  shining  needles  flash 
merrily.  Children,  quaintly  dressed,  and 
looking  as  if  they  had  stepped  out  of  a  Kate 
Greenaway  book,  race  up  and  down  the 
pier.     All  is  bustle  and  animation. 

Not  far  off,  the  monastery  of  St.  Ben- 
edict rose  in  the  midst  of  extensive  grounds. 
We  had  seen  the  ghosts  of  monasteries  and 
abbeys  without  number,  and  most  entranc- 
ing we  had  found  them.  Now  here  was 
our  chance  to  see  one  that  was  alive,  —  a 
bit  of  mediaeval  existence  dropped  into  the 
last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century.  So 
climbing  the  rather  long  ascent  from  the 
dock  to  the  pretty  lodge  at  the  entrance  of 
the  grounds,  we  made  the  usual  inquiries 
of  the  portress.  Yes,  we  could  go  in.  The 
fee  was  a  shilling.     But  it  was  too  late  to 


AN    EXCIIANTED    DAY.  247 

go  over  the  monastery,  A  party  from  the 
boat  had  gone  up  long  before  (conscientious 
sight-seers  that  they  were,  while  we  lazily 
dallied  looking  at  pictures),  and  there  was 
not  time  to  escort  two  parties,  etc.  Over- 
whelmed with  remorse  for  our  shortcom- 
ings, we  looked  at  each  other  in  dismay, 
and  were  about  to  go  back,  when  we  heard 
first  an  unobtrusive  call,  then  a  loud  shout. 
Some  one  at  the  entrance  of  the  monastery, 
at  a  long  distance  down  a  gravelled  walk, 
was  waving  both  hands,  beckoning  franti- 
cally, and  shouting  something  that  sounded 
amazingly  like  a  Yankee  "  Hurry  up  !  " 

Hurry  we  did,  to  find  that  the  whole 
party  of  early  birds  had  been  kept  waiting 
all  this  while,  for  the  possible  addition  of 
two  or  three  late  comers.  Our  gesticu- 
lating friend,  who  proved  to  be  the  janitor, 
a  talkative,  red-haired  Irishman,  was  soon 
conducting  us  up  stairs  and  down,  from 
chapel  to  cloister,  from  kitchen  to  refectory, 
from    recitation-room   to    dormitory.     For 


248  AN    ENXIIANTED    DAY. 

the  monastery  of  St,  Benedict,  which  was 
once  Fort  Augustus,  having  exchanged  the 
clash  of  arms  for  the  tumult  of  cricket  and 
tennis,  is  now  a  college,  or  large  school  for 
boys.  It  was  vacation,  and  not  a  soul  was 
to  be  seen,  —  not  a  single  lad  in  cap  and 
gown,  not  so  much  as  the  shadow  of  a 
black-robed  friar  in  hall,  chapter-house,  or 
cloister. 

*'  Where  are  all  the  brethren  ?  "  asked 
an  inquisitive  American,  with  a  broad 
sombrero  and  a  long  beard.  "  Where  do 
the  monks  hide  themselves  ?  Can't  you 
show  'em  up  ?  Come,  now,  I'll  give  you 
an  extra  shilling," 

The  janitor  looked  at  him  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  from  beneath  a  pair  of  heavy 
eyebrows,  for  full  half  a  minute,  "  You 
won't  see  them,"  he  said  quietly.  "The 
brothers  are  not  such  fools  as  you  may 
think.  They're  not  on  exhibition,  —  the 
friars." 

It  was  interesting  to  see  a  monastery  of 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  249 

our  own  time.  But  it  lacked  the  atmos- 
phere, the  glamour,  the  mystery,  of  the 
past.  It  is  a  fine  building,  and  doubtless  a 
good  school.  Yet  very  poor  and  common- 
place did  it  seem  in  the  strong,  clear  light 
of  to-day,  and  very  prosaic  and  shadowless 
are  its  brand-new,  spick-and-span  cloisters, 
unhallowed  by  song  or  legend. 

The  warning-bell  rang  sharply,  and  as 
we  hurried  back  to  the  boat  we  saw  one  or 
two  tall  figures,  in  black  gowns  and  low, 
broad-brimmed  hats,  stealing  towards  St. 
Benedict,  through  the  lanes  and  behind  the 
hedges.  Neither  the  friars  nor  the  mon- 
astery were  on  exhibition  now,  and  the 
brothers  were  hastening  home. 

As  we  left  Fort  Augustus  we  saw  the 
prettiest  picture  of  all.  Do  the  folk  about 
there  live  out-of-doors,  I  wonder,  French 
fashion  ?  Soon  after  we  were  under  way 
again,  on  the  very  shores  of  the  lake,  we 
passed  a  family  group  that  looked  as  if 
posing    for    a    photograph.    In    the    fore- 


250  AX    ENCITANTED    DAY. 

ground,  seated  in  a  low  chair,  with  her 
knitting  in  her  lap,  was  a  lovely  lady  in 
black,  whose  only  head-covering  was  a 
■widow's  cap,  so  fresh  and  immaculate  that 
one  could  but  wonder  how  it  was  ever  made 
and  put  on.  A  younger  woman  leaned  on 
the  back  of  her  chair,  and  some  pretty 
children,  bare-headed,  played  at  her  feet, 
scarcely  noticing  the  steamer  as  it  passed  so 
near  them  that  it  would  have  been  easy  to 
toss  a  ball  into  the  midst  of  the  group.  At 
the  right  of  the  fair  lady  stood  a  gentleman 
in  full  Highland  costume,  with  tartan  kilt 
that  left  the  knees  uncovered,  a  belted 
jacket,  and  a  bright  plaid  draped  across  the 
breast,  and  fastened  on  one  shoulder  with 
a  cairngorm  clasp,  or  brooch.  His  richly 
ornamented  sporran,  or  pouch,  reached 
below  the  kilt.  By  his  side  hung  his  dirk, 
and  the  handle  of  the  sheathed  knife  with 
the  unpronounceable  name,  stuck  from  the 
top  of  the  stocking,  where  it  is  worn.  My 
laird  would  have  been  handsome  in  any 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  25  I 

costume.  In  this  he  was  simply  superb. 
For  an  instant,  it  seemed  like  a  tableau 
gotten  up  for  our  especial  benefit,  and  I, 
for  one,  felt  an  absurd  desire  to  applaud  as 
the  pretty  picture  faded  out  of  sight. 

Soon  after  we  entered  Loch  Oich  it  began 
to  rain  so  violently  that  we  were  driven 
below,  much  to  our  chagrin.  Yet  the 
passing  shower  proved  to  be  but  a  blessing  in 
disguise,  and  by  the  time  we  had  passed 
through  two  or  three  more  lochs  and  as 
many  locks  to  Banavie,  the  sun,  "clear 
shining  after  rain,"  made  the  constantly 
changing  panorama  more  beautiful  than 
before.  There  we  left  the  steamer,  and 
found  omnibuses  in  waiting  to  convey  us  a 
mile  or  two  across  a  sort  of  peninsula  to 
Corpach,  where  we  again  embarked. 

The  long  summer  afternoon  was  at  its 
height  when  we  caught  our  first  glimpse  of 
the  mighty  bulk  of  Ben  Nevis  towering 
above  Fort  William.  A  little  farther  north- 
ward stood  the    round  towers    of    ruined 


252  AX    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

Castle  Inverlochy,  once  a  royal  fortress, 
but  dismantled  even  so  long  ago  as  when 
the  chiefs  of  Glengarry  and  Keppoch  and 
Lochiel  sent  the  fiery  cross  far  and  wide 
through  all  the  mountains  of  Lochaber, 
summoning  their  vassals  to  do  battle  with 
Montrose  against  Argyle.  Here  Argyle  had 
encamiDed,  in  the  narrow  valley  "where 
the  Lochy  joins  Loch  Eil,"  and  here  Camp- 
bells and  Camerons,  the  Knight  of  Arden- 
vohr  an'd  bold  Ranald  of  the  Mist,  had 
met  hand  to  hand  in  deadly  combat. 
Every  mountain  pass,  every  narrow  de- 
file, every  lonely  glen,  was  peopled  with 
the  spirits  of  the  past.  And  hark  !  What  is 
that  ?  The  bagpipes  are  sounding.  Surely 
it  can  be  nothing  less  than  the 

"  Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 
Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 
Summon  Clan  Conuil  !  " 

"Wild  waves  the  eagle  plume  blended 
with  heather,"  sang  he  who  will  live  as 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  253 

long  as  the  hills  and  lakes  of  his  own  bonnie 
Scotland.  We  saw  no  eagle  plumes  that 
day,  but  there  was  not  a  Scotch  man  or 
woman  on  the  boat  who  did  not  wear  the 
heather  fastened  in  cap  or  bonnet.  Some- 
times it  was  worn  alone,  as  an  all-sufficient 
ornament ;  sometimes  it  was  held  in  place 
by  a  great  cairngorm,  as  lustrous  and  full 
of  imprisoned  sunshine  as  an  Oriental 
topaz,  and  sometimes  by  Lochaber  axes, 
dirks,  or  claymores,  fashioned  from  pebbles 
set  in  silver.  As  a  fine  contrast  to  these 
northern  splendours,  we  had  on  board  an 
Indian  nobleman,  Prince  Hernam  Singh, 
and  his  dusky  princess,  in  whose  brown 
ears  gleamed  long,  barbaric  pendants  of 
emerald  and  pearl.  All  day  long,  their 
servant,  a  tall  and  stately  figure  in  snowy 
turban  and  Oriental  costume,  stood  on  one 
of  the  stairways  leading  to  the  upper  deck, 
silent,  impassive,  statuesque.  He  was  a 
most  imposing  and  impressive  figure,  with 
his  folded  arms,  his  compressed  lips,  and 


254  AN    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

his  dark,  inscrutable  eyes,  that  took  in 
every  unaccustomed  feature  of  lake  and 
sky  and  mountain.  His  master  and  mis- 
tress made  few  demands  upon  him ;  but 
more  than  once  I  saw  the  latter  approach 
him  with  a  few  low  words  in  soft  Hindo- 
stanee,  or  perhaps  some  dainty  from  the 
lunch-basket.  When  we  stopped  at  Cor- 
pach,  the  little  street  gamins,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  their  elders,  crowded  about  him  on 
the  dock  ;  touching  his  strange  garments, 
peering  up  into  his  face,  and  making  them- 
selves generally  disagreeable.  He  did  not 
turn  his  head  nor  lift  his  hand,  heeding 
them  no  more  than  if  they  had  been  insects 
buzzing  about  a  marble  statue. 

Ben  Nevis,  the  highest  mountain  in  Great 
Britain,  is  grand  and  imposing,  less  from  its 
height,  which  is  only  4406  feet,  than  from 
its  breadth,  if  one  may  use  the  word.  Its 
circumference  at  the  base  is,  we  were  told, 
nearly  twenty-five  miles.  To  the  average 
eye  it  seems  higher  than  it  is,  at  least  when 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  255 

seen  from  the  water.  It  is  a  world  of 
precipices,  and  glens,  and  huge  rents  and 
fissures,  and  vast  shadowy  masses  that  are 
always  taking  on  new  outlines  and  new 
proportions.  Often  it  appears  in  the 
similitude  of  some  great,  crouching  monster 
brooding  in  sombre  majesty  over  the  pyg- 
mies at  its  feet. 

At  last,  as  day  began  to  wane,  we  passed 
through  Loch  Aber  and  the  Corran  Narrows 
into  Loch  Linnhe.  And  here  the  mighty 
spirit  of  the  lakes  and  mountains  took 
possession  of  us  all,  and  held  that  boat-load 
of  merry  people  silent  and  spellbound.  It 
was  as  if  we  were  being  borne  onward, 
swiftly  and  noiselessly,  into  the  inmost 
lioly  of  holies.  Even  the  captain  and  the 
very  deck-hands  stood  like  men  entranced, 
overwhelmed  by  the  surpassing  splendour. 
Anything  so  grand,  so  weird,  so  magical, 
can  hardly  be  imagined,  much  less  de- 
scribed. The  rain  of  two  hours  before  had 
left    the   air  heavy   with   vapour,  through 


256  AN    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

which  the  sun  now  shone  gloriously,  pro- 
ducing the  most  marvellous  effects.  "  You 
might  make  this  trip  a  hundred  times, 
ladies,"  said  the  captain,  as  he  stood  un- 
covered, "  and  not  get  the  half  of  what  you 
are  getting  to-day,  —  no,  nor  the  tenth 
of  it." 

I  quote  this,  lest  some  of  our  dear, 
wandering  kinsfolk,  who  have  been  "  down 
the  Caledonia  Canal ' '  on  some  dull,  gray 
day,  when  the  Scotch  mists  hemmed  them 
in  on  all  sides,  and  they  could  scarcely  see 
beyond  the  decks,  should  cry  out,  "How 
that  woman  exaggerates!"  But  we  have 
all  seen  transformation  scenes  on  the  stage, 
where  the  effect  of  light  and  colour,  of 
rapidly  dissolving  views,  and  of  seemingly 
supernatural  revelations  filled  us  with  word- 
less awe.  Now  make  the  stage  one  vast 
panorama  of  shining,  sparkling  water,  as 
still  as  a  sheet  of  silver.  Dot  the  surface 
with  islands,  dark  masses  of  verdure  rising 
out  of  the  depths,  and  often  picturesquely 


AN    ENCHANTED    DAY.  257 

beautiful  with  ivy-grown  mouldering  towers, 
broken  arches,  and  here  and  there  a  stately- 
monument.  Let  the  nearer  hills,  sloping 
upwards  from  the  shores,  be  cultivated  and 
clothed  with  living  green  more  than  half- 
way up  ;  make  them  gentle  and  homelike 
by  building  stately  mansions  on  the  broad 
terraces,  and  letting  small  gray  cottages, 
like  birds'-nests,  perch  on  the  sightly  cliffs  ; 
then,  stretching  far  above  these  human 
habitations,  let  the  purple  of  the  wald 
heather,  blending  with  the  soft  olives  of 
ferns  and  mosses,  climb  to  their  very  tops. 
Beyond  them,  tier  on  tier,  not  in  regular 
ranges,  but  jutting  out  edgewise,  and  cross- 
wise, and  «?Zwise,  let  the  mightier  hills 
stretch  upwards  and  onwards,  appearing 
and  disappearing ;  now  looming  up  out  of 
the  vapour  in  cold,  blue  splendour,  then 
suddenly  vanishing  like  pallid  ghosts  ; 
changing  every  moment  ;  presenting  con- 
stantly new  vistas,  new  cloud  marvels,  and 
new  openings    into    far,   radiant   reaches, 


258  AN    ENCHANTED    DAY. 

through  which  you  seem  to  see  heaven 
itself.  Throw  over  all  this  light  veils  of 
mist,  that  soften  rather  than  obscure,  — 
pale  gray,  dazzling  silver,  soft  rose,  trans- 
lucent amber,  puri^le  amethyst, — veils  that 
lloat,  and  lift,  and  waver,  with  every  breath 
and  with  every  motion  of  the  boat,  and  you 
will  have  some  faint  idea  of  what  our  eyes 
beheld  that  August  evening  as  we  crossed 
Loch  Linnhe  and  passed  into  Loch  Leven, 
pausing  for  a  few  moments  at  Ballachulish, 
and  then,  turning  into  Linnhe  again,  swept 
on  our  downward  way  towards  Oban.  But 
you  must  do  still  more.  You  must  imagine 
all  this  magnificence  of  cloud  and  mountain 
and  island  so  perfectly  mirrored  in  the 
clear,  still  waters  of  the  lake  that  even  the 
changing  splendour  of  colour  was  dupli- 
cated, and  heaven  was  below  as  well  as 
above  us. 

It  grew  dark  and  chill  at  last.  The  over- 
powering glory  died,  and  earth  was  earth 
once     more.      But    the    effect    remained. 


AN    EXCIIAXTKD    DAY.  259 

Young  men  and  maidens,  old  men  and  chil- 
dren, were  content  to  sit  in  silence,  or  to 
speak  in  subdued  whispers,  as  we  watched 
for  the  first  gleam  of  the  semicircular 
cordon  of  lights  that  guard  the  bay  of 
Oban. 


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